


Bring my heart to heel

by Heyokaooohshiny



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Derek is a Failwolf, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Original Character(s), Pregnant Stiles, Scott is a Bad Friend, Scott is a Failwolf, Self-Harm, Sheriff Stilinski needs to use his words, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Leaves the Pack, Stiles Runs Away, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, Unreliable Narrator, We has a sad, but not really, gratuitous and unreliable use of italics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 121,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyokaooohshiny/pseuds/Heyokaooohshiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale leaves Stiles bereft after a one-night stand. After exposing his heart to the older man, someone he trusted intrinsically to at least remain friends, Stiles finds himself unintentionally abandoned by the last person with which he had any hope. With nothing left to lose Stiles uses the cover of a school trip to run away from the pack. He finds out soon after that Derek left him with more than just painful memories. He meets a witch who becomes a much needed friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Static

**Author's Note:**

> What If - Safetysuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **updated 1/13/18 with amazeballs banner gifted by Faladrast (checkout on FB) a fan and gifted digital artist. Many kissez to you Faladrast!!!

# 

**Bring my heart to heel**

**With my spark gone out**

**There's nothing left to feel**

 

It was always leading to this moment. 

He had to admit to himself that he wasn’t surprised anymore. Stiles stood alone on the sidewalk, hands deep in his pockets as he stared across the street at the busy Café. His fingers were tightly clenched around a small object he’d taken to carrying with him the last week or so. Its weight offered him some small measure of grounding. If the edges of the small object dug into his palm with how tightly he clenched it, well, no one else had to know.

The pack was over there, gathered around the lumpy armchairs that circled the low coffee table in front of the one large bay window that The Splash of Joy Café boasted. It was a popular spot; great coffee, friendly servers. Stiles went there himself when the need for caffeine hit him. Kind of why he’d been heading in that direction, though the thought of going in there now kind of made him want to hurl.

How long had he been standing there, he wondered. It probably looked suspicious to a bystander. A lanky teen staring in windows creepily like someone’s idea of a stalker. The thought made him want to snort at the irony but he was too numb.

They were all there. Scott and Kira curled up one chair; Liam flopped at their feet like a puppy. Malia was on the next chair picking apart a scone with ruthless intensity. Lydia ruled her own throne with several books stacked on the table in front of her, balancing a delicate cup of tea with her usual poise. It looked easy. Natural.

Stiles knew without bothering to look that there were no new notifications on his phone. No one had invited him out. Heck, no one had even texted him in days.

Senior year turned out to be seriously fucked up (thanks Theo, you fucker). Was anyone surprised about this? Not Stiles. He also wasn’t surprised that yet again, the universe seemed to hand him a bag of steaming shit for his troubles.

Did he feel smug that finally, after everything, he had been proven right about Theo Raeken? Not for one. Blood. Soaked. Second. He’d paid for every stubborn confrontation with his own flesh. Literally. His father had just recently returned to work after Theo’s attack and nothing was the same. The lies he’d told about Donovan, even though they’d proven to be part of Theo’s manipulations, seemed to irreparably sever the trust between father and son. One too many lies told over the years and now it seemed there was no going back.

The Stilinski house was feeling particularly empty lately. The Sherriff was out trying to catch up on work he’d missed--pulling overtime to make up for hospital bills that once again they couldn’t afford. Stiles was lucky to see him in passing these days and even then their exchanges were awkward. Like two orbiting strangers.

No one came to visit anymore. He and Malia broke up a while ago, over the whole Donovan ordeal, so she never dropped by anymore (he was a mix of relieved and bitter about that but it was for the best—their relationship hadn’t been healthy from the start). Scott had made an attempt to apologize for jumping to conclusions, but it had seemed more like he was turning the blame on Theo than genuinely feeling bad for turning his back on Stiles in his time of need. Stiles had accepted his apology, for what it was worth. After all he’d taken his chance to punch Scott in the teeth for not being there. Luckily for everyone involved, his dad had recovered. Stiles shuddered to think how he would have responded otherwise. And Scott thought he had to worry about a stupid torque wrench—

Kira returned more kick-ass than before. Must have been one hell of a Kitsune Intensive, it seemed like she’d only been gone for a month and she was back again and in control of her tails.

Liam was still a little shaky but of everyone in the group except Lydia, Stiles felt the most sympathy for the youngest wolf. When he’d found out what had happened between Liam and Scott he immediately empathized. Seems like Scott had really let the Alpha-thing mess with his head. Of course that could just be his bitterness talking, thought Stiles.

Lydia was struggling. Whatever Valack had done to her in Eichen to release her Banshee powers had left her vulnerable. She was recovering admirably though and of all the members of the pack Stiles held her the least accountable for losing touch with him. She had a lot on her mind (quite literally too, he guessed).

But just like every other time in the past, their patchwork pack had pulled it together long enough fight Theo and the Dread Doctors, save Lydia from Valack and Eichen House, and rescue the remaining Chimera.

Once everything was said and done, Stiles found himself on the fringe of the reforming pack. No one said anything but he wondered if it wasn’t similar to what was happening with his father. There was only so many times someone could see what lay hidden in your darkness before deciding for themselves whether it was worth getting infected.

If asked honestly, he would have expected this to happen long before now. He had so much to answer for, starting with Scott being bitten that night looking for Laura Hale’s body, right up to Theo slashing his father nearly to pieces.

So much blood. So many dead people.

He would never hold it against his friends if they couldn’t look at him anymore. If he had a choice he’d—

His thoughts were interrupted when the sixth pack member finally made an appearance and dropped down into the last remaining seat. Stiles felt his body go still. Even his heartbeat stuttered.

There. That was what he was waiting for.  

Derek, who reached over for one of Lydia’s books, exchanging an easy smile with Scott. Who kicked his boots up on the edge of the table and leaned back easily into the circle of friends as though he’d never left Beacon Hills.

Stiles pivoted in place, unable to watch any longer. His fingers were so tightly clenched around the item in his pocket they were sure to be bloodless.

He didn’t belong here anymore, and there was nothing that could make it any clearer for him than the hole in his chest where his heart used to be.

 

The next morning found him staring wide awake at his ceiling. He’d spent another sleepless night with only his broken brain for company. It was like listening to a radio station that was stuck between frequencies. Every few minutes there would be something almost coherent but then the image or sound would distort sickeningly. Stiles spent the hours alternatively twisting in his sheets and staring limp and blank eyed at the ceiling, the wall, or the door.

Sometimes a flicker of a memory would burn through his numbness. A press of hot, slick lips. Sweat pooling in the hollow of his back; his name spoken in a hushed, reverent voice. Those moments were ruthlessly drowned out by the noiseless static. Stiles let it. He’d rather feel numb then remember.

When the sound of his father moving around in his bedroom reached him, Stiles finally found the incentive to get up. He went through the motions of taking a shower and getting dressed. He brushed his teeth, all the while avoiding his reflection in the mirror (he knew what he would find there and if he lifted his eyes—well, it would be kind of hard to explain a broken mirror to his dad). He returned to his bedroom, letting his eyes scan the familiar space. There was nothing out of place. He allowed himself to tug the wrinkles out of the bedding before he reached into his pocket for his most recent tagalong.

He held it in his hand for a moment. His chest ached as he looked at it, acknowledging it one last time. Then before the ragged hole in his chest could pierce his wall of numbness, he reached over and placed the tiny item on his pillow and stepped back.

Stiles turned around and grabbed his backpack from where it was waiting on his computer chair. There was a second of hesitation as he hung back in the doorway. His head turned as though he thought about looking back but his spine straightened and he continued down the hallway.

 

The Sheriff was in the kitchen putting the final touches on a quick breakfast of eggs and toast. Stiles made a noise of appreciation as he slid into his seat at the kitchen table, pulling his glass of orange juice closer. It wasn’t often (like, he could count on one hand) his dad was around to make breakfast in any shape or form for the both of them.

Despite the typical morning noises of his dad rattling around the stove, the room was quiet and Stiles found it hard to swallow around the hard lump in his throat. Even at their angriest there had been conversation. Yelling, sarcasm, threats. Now there was nothing but a vacuum of noise.  

He tried to eat but now a sudden nausea and slight aching in his stomach made him push the food around his plate.

When his dad sat down with his own meal, Stiles actually found himself the focus of those familiar pale blue eyes. For a moment he froze in shock. When was the last time his dad had actually _looked_ at him?

“So you have that field trip today?” the Sheriff asked around a mouthful of egg.

Stiles hid the trembling in his fingers by grasping his fork tighter. “Yeah, the school is taking a bunch of us to SoCal for a tour.”

“Hmm.”

Taking another sip of his juice to cover his sudden nerves, Stiles wanted to scream at the awkwardness that settled between the two of them.

“Need any money?” His dad asked blandly.

Stiles had to clear his throat past the thickness that he suddenly found there. “Nah,” he replied, “The school is paying for everything. Thanks though.”

His dad dipped his head in acknowledgement.

He couldn’t stay in this room one more second. Stiles stood up abruptly, his chair squawking on the linoleum. “I’m gonna--” he thumbed over his shoulder in explanation.

“Yeah okay.” His dad nodded. “Safe trip.”

His eyes were burning as he rushed from the room with a flailing arm meant to be a goodbye wave. He grabbed his backpack and the jacket draped over it before blindly shoving out the front door.

Only outside was he able to find enough air to fill his tightening lungs. Stiles let his feet carry him down the sidewalk and towards the direction of the school.

 

Back at the Stilinski house, upstairs in Stiles’ room a wooden chess piece lay on Stiles’ pillow where he left it. The King looked out of place, abandoned, on the plaid bedding.

 

“Hey Stilinski, you’re late!” Coach bellowed.

“Coach,” Stiles raised his hands apologetically. “S’there a reason why you’re always assigned the field trips?” _Great_. He’d been hoping for a chaperone that he was less familiar with but then again, Finstock wasn’t known for his keen investigative skills. Case in point the overnight stay at the Glen Capri with the Lacrosse team. Fun times.

“Penance, Stilinski. Penance.” Coach replied with his usual impatience, “Now get on the bus.”

The bus wasn’t crowded so Stiles chose a seat as much towards the back as he could get. He didn’t have too many options left but thankfully there was nobody onboard who seemed to feel like joining him. He placed his backpack in the empty seat and dug out his earbuds. The ride to Los Angeles would take about two hours. If he was lucky he would sleep some of the way there, but he was doubtful.

As Stiles pulled up one of his random song lists he couldn’t help but check to see if he had any messages. He let out a small snort of derision. Of course not.

He let the music empty out his mind and looked out the window. With a slight jerk, the bus shuddered into motion.

Stiles pulled the jacket hanging off his backpack and folded it so he could wrap his arms around it, leaning his cheek on the material as he stared at the scenery as it passed. His belly was doing that dull ache thing that it had been doing for the past week or so and Stiles found if he hunched over a little, pressed his cheek against the leather the sensation wasn’t as noticeable.

As they passed the ‘Leaving Beacon Hills’ sign, Stiles let himself close his eyes. No one noticed the single tear that slipped from beneath his closed lids.

 

They stopped once for a bathroom break but other than that they made good time to L.A.  Stiles was vaguely familiar with his surroundings; he’s made the occasional road trip here for shopping, concerts, visiting friends and the like. He’d even been to USC before with Lydia, even though in the end she’d chosen to be courted by MIT.

He’d received acceptance letters from a couple prestigious colleges but he’d originally chosen USC for a couple of reasons--one of them being the proximity to Beacon Hills, another important reason was that he’d received a full-ride (and with his family’s finances, that news had been _very good_ news). In the end though, it turned out to be meaningless because he wasn’t going to be attending in the fall.

Ask him what he was going to do instead, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you. Frankly at the moment he didn’t really have it in him to care. He only knew what he had to do first before he could even figure it out for himself.

The Beacon Hills group was following Finstock and one of the other teachers up to the entrance of USC. Stiles hung back at the rear and when it was his turn to enter the building he grasped the door in his hand for a beat before letting it close after the disappearing crowd. He spun on his heel and hurried back down the sweeping steps. Turning a corner, Stiles flicked up the hood on his sweater and pulled on the leather jacket (slightly big on him, but only just) before shrugging his backpack into place.

He pulled out his phone and called one of the local cab companies he’d looked up earlier. It was the quickest and safest way to get to Union Station. Stiles oriented himself before giving the location to the operator. He couldn’t take any chances with his luck that Finstock, or anyone else, would notice his absence. Taking a taxi to the bus station was his surest way to disappear without a fuss.

His muscles were tight with tension as he waited, expecting for a shout to suddenly call him out, or his phone to buzz an alert that his plans had been discovered somehow. But as the white and red sedan pulled up to the curb in front of him, he realized he was taking one more step away from everything he’d ever cared about.

His lips were thinned grimly as his fingers curled around the rear door handle of the cab. It wasn’t his choice he was leaving, he reminded himself. No one wanted him there anymore, and if he’d learned anything in his frenetic and numerous hours of research it was that when a wolf (or in his case human pack member—but still) outstayed their welcome in a pack they were driven off or killed. Yes, he knew, werewolves were not the same as wolves, but the concept was not dissimilar.

Stiles swung himself into the backseat of the cab and gave his directions to the indifferent cabbie.

If there was one thing Stiles knew with certainty, was that he could take beatings, could take torture and even fucking possession if it meant helping his friends. He’d gladly suffer these godawful nightmares for the rest of his life if that meant their survival. He didn’t want anything beyond their happiness.

But at some point the bonds he shared with the most important people in his life had been unmoored. Scott, his best friend, his Alpha, had dismissed him; choosing to trust Theo over him with (not so) shocking disregard. In similar fashion, Malia chose to leave Stiles alone in his self-recrimination and crippling guilt over Donovan’s death. Kira would have gone so far as to sympathize but her place, bless her little heart, would always be by Scott’s side. Liam had been devastated by Hayden’s death and consumed with his own turmoil with Scott to notice anyone else. Lydia had been locked away and unable to offer any sort of solidarity. And then, towards the end of the whole mess, Derek…

_Nope._

Stiles closed his eyes tightly. The hot burning ache in his ribs stole his breath and turned it ragged. His fingers contracted on the straps of his backpack as he pulled it closer to his chest in the mockery of a hug.

_No._

He wasn’t going there. Not for a long fucking time. _Never_ , if he could help it. Stiles popped his earbuds back in and turned up the music to pass the time.

He needed the static.


	2. Thunderbolt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *werd* to the awesome Desmenn who has volunteered to beta for the good of one and all. So much awesomeness!
> 
> The One That Got Away - The Civil Wars

The Amtrak bus is a couple of degrees more comfortable than the school bus. When they board, he climbs to the back and settles into a window seat. Even though he loses his privacy and elbow room, the seats are more comfortable and, well, _air conditioned_. He’ll take what small mercies he can find this late in the summer. 

Stiles keeps his hood up and his backpack in his lap. He doesn’t get a neighbor until a few stops later but he barely acknowledges them, sliding in and out of exhausted slumber. He doesn’t remember the last time he had a full night’s sleep. In the last two weeks he’s probably had the equivalent of one night under his belt. It’s no wonder he feels half delirious now.

The next time Stiles makes a conscious effort to rouse himself, its night time and the overhead lights are dimmed to allow the passengers to sleep. Stiles remembers seeing a sign a while back for something called Chiriaco Summit. Basically he’s in the middle of ‘The Hills Have Eyes’ desert wasteland. It reminds him of the time they drove to Mexico to rescue. . .

It’s like his mind is a broken record. There’s a dissonant skip before his brain smooths out into safer territory. His hooded eyes shift past his reflection and out into the moonlit night. The lumpy scrub of the desert passes by as a blurry nightscape.

He plays Plants vs Zombies until the battery on his phone gets too low and then he turns it off to conserve what’s left. It’s not like he’s worried anyone can track it. He cracked the case open before he left and poured in some crushed quartz. A little bit of _intent_ , a little bit of his spark and his signal was going to bounce off random cell towers until he wished otherwise.

The crushed quartz was his own discovery. Applying a little bit of intent to a small handful of the crystal could yield some interesting results. It was similar to wolfsbane in application but it was more for general use, not just against werewolves.

Stiles can’t help feeling a little vindictive at the thought of how thorough he’s been in covering his tracks. Even though a large part of himself wonders how much of his preparation was likely for nothing. Why would they bother to look for him? The pack hasn’t given a shit about him in months.

His eyes are vacant as he stares at the passing landscape. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he knows he’s not going back. Part of himself that he may not be ready to acknowledge (yet) whispers he just wanted to get far enough that his father won’t be the one to find his body. The thought gives him a cold shiver but he’s grimmer with resignation than fear. Stiles has decided that he’s been through enough. He has nothing left to fight for.

He doesn’t have a plan or anything but it feels inevitable. It has since _that night_. Giving up for good could be a week from now. It could be in twenty years. It might even be never. Right now though, Stiles doesn’t have enough brain power to calculate how many hours left until the transfer in Mesa. So. He wiggles lower in his seat and closes his eyes, hoping for a little bit more sleep.

 

When he wakes up next, Stiles is in Mesa Arizona and its morning. It takes him a moment to orient himself as the passengers around him are disembarking. He does a full body stretch, feeling his neck crack ominously. He rolls his head cautiously, muscles straining from the uncomfortable position he’s been hunched in for hours. Then he gathers his things and follows the rest of the crowd off the bus.

Welp, he made it. He’s in a different state. He takes it in as he stands in what looks like a nice urban neighborhood. He does a little spin and heads inside the sprawling bus depot.

While he waits in line for tickets, his stomach does a gnawing little growl. He scrunches up his face when he realizes the last time he ate was yesterday morning with his dad, and it was very little at that.

He studies the bus schedule on the overhead screen while he’s waiting. There’s a bus going to Tuscon in half-an-hour, and one to Albuquerque in two. Stiles thinks about the map of Arizona in his brain. As long as it’s _away_ , he doesn’t really care. But Tuscon is leaving sooner and the faster he puts Beacon Hills in his rear view the better he’ll feel. He may be in another state but it’s like he can still feel his hometown’s vice grip on his chest.

When he gets to the wicket he hands over cash for the ticket to Tuscon. With the change he heads over to the vending machines (he avoids the food court—it’s best to keep his face hidden) and chooses a prepackaged sub, a pack of reeses, and another bottle of water. He sits down on a bench to wait for his bus.

A couple more stops and he’ll have to find a bank to withdraw more money. He’ll be good for a while yet, Stiles thinks as he chews mechanically. He’s even got a shiny new bank card with a fake name on it, thanks to good ol’ Danny. His old classmate had moved away before senior year but Stiles had kept in contact. They would never be buddy-buddies but after Jackson, the Alpha Pack and Ethan, Danny had only been able to get any kind of explanation for what happened from Stiles. No one else had bothered to fill him in. Stiles could appreciate how left-out Danny felt, as the only un-enhanced human in a supernatural pack.

So when Stiles told Danny he needed fake ID and a bank account under a new identity, and it had to be kept secret from everyone, Danny had just given him a _look_. Over Skype no less, but it was a pretty potent look. He didn’t ask what he needed it for, only asked for the specifications he needed.

So Stiles had an ID in his pocket with the name Mieczysław Liszka (it was his first name and his mother’s maiden name, so nothing too wild _._ He could call himself ‘Mitch’ or something, if he had to). Danny had offered him a discount when he finally found out Stiles’ real name. Funny guy, that Danny.

He only planned to use the assumed identity in emergencies. Really the only purpose he has for the new ID and bank account is so that he has somewhere to transfer his college fund so his father can’t trace his withdrawals.

Danny was thorough and gave him a credit card along with the account. Stiles had to admit Jackson’s ex-bestie had a huge heart to go with his genius. He is completely indebted. He only hopes Lydia never catches on to their illegal hacking exchange because their balls would be skewered.

Stiles finds himself unable to finish his sandwich so he re-wraps it and tucks it into his backpack. He’s feeling queasy again. He takes a careful swig of his water and beelines to the washroom to pee and brush his teeth. He pops an Adderall, looking at the bottle with a frown. Once this prescription runs out he won’t be able to visit the doctor for a new one. He’ll have to stretch it out as much as he can.

With no time left to dawdle, Stiles finds the boarding area of the bus station and gets in the line-up for Tuscon. This time there’s more of a crowd so when he gets on he’s in an aisle seat towards the middle of the motorcoach.

Every step he takes farther from Beacon Hills without getting stopped, the more he relaxes but the emptier he feels inside. It only reinforces how little he meant to everyone. When he thinks back to last September and how optimistic he’d been about senior year, keeping the pack together, and being best friends with Scott forever . . . it makes him want to laugh and laugh and not ever stop. What a fucking joke.

Stiles can feel the bitter twist on his lips. He drapes his long arms over his backpack and stares down the aisle as the driver gets ready to leave.

Only a little while later he decides that he much prefers the window seat. He feels exposed on the aisle, unable to fully shield himself from the other passengers. He doesn’t want to draw attention, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he doesn’t want to draw attention. Or something. Stiles huffs a sigh out his nose.

One benefit of sitting in the aisle are the frequent pee breaks. Stiles loses count how many times he makes a begrudging trip to the poor excuse for a toilet at the back of the bus. Like seriously, what’s up with that? He’s only had one bottle of water. Somehow his body has magically transformed 500 ml of fluid into an endless fountain.

His second day on the run is harder than the first because of physical discomfort. With his persistent bladder and faint queasiness, his hyperawareness makes him fidgety and claustrophobic. He’s unable to nap and without his phone to distract himself Stiles is the subject of a few rude elbows to the side.

Instead of causing a commotion, which was his usual knee jerk reaction, Stiles has to clench his jaw and sacrifice an Adderall on one of his bathroom trips. It’s that or his bouncing knee is going to go through the seat in front of him. He can’t show up on the evening news as the kid whose nervous twitching caused a violent mutiny on local transit.

He concentrates on counting his breaths. It’s only two hours or so to Tuscon and he plans on getting the next connection from there. Wherever he ends up he’ll get a room for the night. By then he’ll feel far enough away hopefully the demons nipping at his heels (or more accurately, _wolves_ ) will be appeased enough to let him rest for a few hours.

 

The Sherriff opens the door to find a sunny looking Lydia Martin posed in a floral blouse, with her large round sunglasses set loosely on the top of her head.

“Lydia, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Hi Sherriff, is Stiles home?” Her eyes pointedly glance over at the Jeep parked in the driveway next to his cruiser.

“I don’t believe he is, to be honest. It’s way too quiet in here.” He quirks his lips.  “I just woke up actually. I was about ready to head into work.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Lydia fingers the end of one of her curls. “Do you mind if I check to see if he’s upstairs?”

The Sherriff pauses, “Is everything alright?”

She licks her lips, “I just have this—I have this feeling. I just really need to check on him.”

Frowning, since he is well aware of Lydia’s urges and wondering what they have to do with his son, he steps back to let her into the house. “Of course, come in.”

She leaves the Sherriff downstairs, though she can feel his eyes follow her up the stairs. The inexplicable tug is pulling her towards Stiles’ room. It’s not like the _scrambling/bottomless/hurricane_ she feels as a precursor to a death; she doesn’t feel the ache in her jaw that means she’s holding back a scream. This is more like following an invisible trail that whispers insistently at the edge of her awareness.

She remembered telling Stiles she wasn’t psychic once. That’s not what this is, she thinks.

His door is closed. Lydia pauses, her fist suspended before she knocks. “Stiles?”

There’s no answer. She frowns.

She pushes open the door and instantly the whispers grow louder. Something’s not right. Her lips tighten in concern. In her first survey of the bedroom, she notices that Stiles’ laptop is closed, his stacks of books are neater than any other time she’s ever witnessed, there’s no laundry kicked into corners and the bed is neatly made. Stiles is no slob (Scott *coff*) but . . .

There. On the pillow.

Lydia sucks in a sharp inhalation.

The King.

“ _Coup de foudre,”_ she breathes in horror.

“Sherriff!” She yells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coup de foudre - 'The French expression le coup de foudre has a literal and a figurative meaning, though the latter is a bit more common. Literally, un coup de foudre is a "bolt of lightning" or "thunderbolt."
> 
> Figuratively, it indicates "love at first sight," which I think makes perfect sense, as that feeling is like a huge a shock to the system.' (french.about.com)
> 
> S3ep23 Insatiable: Meredith Walker answers Stiles' phone and says (re: the voices), "They say coup de foudre."


	3. Beautiful Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song to listen to: Your Type - Carly Rae Jepsen or listen to the mix http://spoti.fi/1kzF0xX
> 
> And Holy Cow Thank You to all the Kudo's and Comments that have been rendered! I'm so excited at the feedback. Happy New Years to all!  
> Thank you to Desmen for being an awesome beta!! Without you there would be some embarrassing shit. Like shafts where shafts ain't got no business being. :D

Finally getting the key to work, Stiles shoved open the sticky door of the motel room. He wasn’t expecting anything fancy from a place that still used actual keys, but he took a precious moment to scan the premises with blurring eyes before dropping his backpack to the floor. Bed, bathroom, deadbolt, no questions from the front desk. That’s all he cared about.

Sliding the deadbolt home, Stiles stumbled to the bathroom to pee quickly. The temptation of the mattress was calling his name but he wanted to do a few things before passing out. He’d worry about a shower when he woke up.  After washing his face and brushing his teeth, Stiles returned to his bag to withdraw a small sachet of mountain ash. Taking a slow breath to gather what focus he could, Stiles drew a line across the doorway and another across the windowsill. It was precautionary more than anything but he wasn’t willing to take any chances. If he was overdoing it that was one thing. It beat having to be dragged back to Beacon Hills to face the music.

That done, Stiles took his cellphone out of his pocket and plugged the charger into the space next to the headboard. He shrugged out of the jacket and hoody and dropped them on top of the mattress. He sat on the edge and toed off his chucks. As he sat there he felt his upper body swaying with exhaustion. It had been a long fucking day. He swiped a hand over his face.

What sleep he had managed on the bus had been sporadic and filled with nightmares. He’d jerked awake more than once with tears on his cheeks and strange looks from the other passengers. After the third episode he just said screw it and resolved to stay awake. Maybe that’s why there were crimson divots in his palms. He’d had to curl his hands into fists to keep from succumbing to a panic attack. Stiles felt one hovering over him like an overprotective-werewolf all day (not like he knew what that felt like anymore).

Stiles stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. He was wary of the bedding but not enough to avoid climbing between the sheets. He would just pretend for his overactive brain’s welfare that any previous unseemly activity had occurred _on top_ of the comforter. Not for the first time he found himself glad he didn’t have a supernatural sniffer.

Stretching out his arm he snatched up his phone and pulled it closer. He had to admit to himself that his curiosity was no more than self-flagellation at this point but it was now over 36 hours since he’s stepped on the school bus in Beacon Hills, he needed to know how long it would take his father and the pack to notice his absence. Stiles pursed his lips. So he was a little bitter. He had earned a little cynicism.

When the screen flicked on, the sight of multiple messages made the hollow feeling in Stiles’ chest throb. He swallowed thickly. So they had figured it out then, bully for them. He scrolled down to see who the first message was from. Who was the first to notice Stiles was gone?

He tried hard not to look at the caller ids. He didn’t want to know who had called or how many times. Or who had not. He knew he was on a knife’s edge, perhaps literally. He couldn’t take any chances something (someone) would tip him over with one final push.

Perhaps he was on his way there anyway but he would do it on his own terms and not before.

His thumb paused and his lip curled up in a half smirk.

Lydia.

Of _course_.

Nothing got past his lovely goddess, at least not for long. Stiles thought fondly. She may be dealing with a metric shit ton of her own mental trauma but he’d known she would notice the void his absence made. Out of everyone there, she was the only one left he felt he could trust in any capacity. However her ties to the pack now made contact impossible. She was strong. He reminded himself. She would find her footing.

He didn’t listen to the messages, or read the multitudes of texts that flashed obnoxiously. There was no point. He wasn’t arguing with anyone. He didn’t feel like justifying his choice and he definitely didn’t feel like apologizing for leaving.

He knew he had blood on his hands. God, how could he forget (and how could anyone who knew him ever believe for _one minute_ that he wouldn’t trade places for the lives he’d taken). Yes he could be vicious —another thing he would never apologize for—it had always been to protect his family. His friends. 

He wasn’t perfect, Stiles was painfully aware of this fact. Always had been. But he felt like somewhere along the way he’d done something _wrong._ It felt like maybe he’d _missed_ something, a lesson that everyone else had learned about life, or a secret handshake that normal people gave to one another to be part of the regular crowd. For a while he’d been happy with what he had. His dad, and Scott. His whole world had revolved around two people. He thought he’d done everything he could to make them happy with him. He took care of his dad; he cooked, cleaned, ran errands, paid bills, kept good grades at school. He’d  hoped— _prayed_ —that it would be enough to make up for his ADHD, his pathological need to find trouble, and his cunning curiosity. And Scott, god. He was Stiles’ only friend for most of his childhood. He’d done everything he could to keep his best friend. He’d only recently stopped carrying a spare inhaler for Scott’s no-longer-present asthma for chrissakes. Instead of being valued, Stiles’ friendship, his loyalty, was taken for granted.

What did he mean to them in the end?

Nothing.

Pack furniture. The kind no one wanted to sit on, even.

It only took an angel-faced chimera with a talent for planting seeds of doubt and Scott and his dad were all too quick to abandon any faith they’d once had in Stiles. A goddamn _stranger_ who’d only been in Beacon Hills for a few weeks managed to turn everyone against him. Almost like they didn’t need any convincing; like they’d been waiting for someone to say it first so they didn’t have to.

So yeah, Stiles didn’t feel guilty for leaving.

But it would be a lie if he said it didn’t hurt. He would have done _anything_ . . .

Stiles covered his mouth against the agonized groan that wanted free. His whole body locked down on it. _No._ He ground his teeth. _I will not weep like a baby. I **deserved** this. I will take this like penance. I was stupid to think anyone could love me _ (dark lashes, blue-green-gold eyes rose to memory but he ruthlessly shoved it down). He remembered things the Nogitsune used to whisper during his captivity. Cruel, dark, hateful things. Balling a fist tight against his lips, Stiles’ slender form began rocking. The Nogitsune had said a lot of things, but nothing was said that didn’t have at least a grain of truth.

_“You killed your mother Stiles—”_

There had been no dispute. How could he argue when he’d always known it as truth? Needless to say, the Nogitsune had been _delighted_ with that little gem.

It hadn’t saved the twisted fox in the end. The 1000 year old spirit had been too arrogant to expect a take down from a group of highschoolers. At the time, Stiles had just enough perseverance and remaining support to pull himself back together. But the possession had changed his world view irreparably.

His teenage sense of invincibility was gone and so was his naive innocence. He may not have physically touched a drop of Allison’s spilled blood but he felt submerged in it nonetheless; as well as Aiden’s and everyone the Nogitsune and Oni had slaughtered at the Beacon General Hospital. Hell, he could _still_ feel Scott’s blood slicking down the katana and making his hand hot and sticky.

Stiles gagged.

He scrambled from the bed to the bathroom just in time to lose whatever was left in his stomach. It wasn’t much.

He slapped blindly for the flush and pushed his aching body to his feet. He shuffled to the sink and rinsed out his mouth. Spitting and rinsing again. He was too tired to go fetch his toothbrush.

Throwing up had sapped what was left of his energy. Stiles dropped on the bed like a stone. He just had enough energy to pull the leather jacket to his face before he was unconscious.

                                                                                               -----------------------------

“If somebody took Stiles we need to start looking before the trail gets any colder,” the Sheriff pressed urgently. “Bobby Finstock said they last saw Stiles as they headed inside the USC campus. I’ve gotten in touch with the department up there but they can’t do much about it unless there’s a ransom note.” There was frustration deep in the crinkles of the Sheriff's eyes. “They said they’d look into it but I think they’re only doing it because he’s my son.”

Lydia looked up from her place at the Stilinski’s kitchen table. The other chairs were occupied with others from the pack. “No one took him, Sheriff. I’ve been trying to tell you. Stiles _left._ ”

“But,” Scott’s voice was uncomprehending, “Why would he leave?”

“Are you kidding me?” Lydia scoffed. “When was the last time any of you spent any time with him?”

Derek was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. His lips tightened at her question. “About a month ago,” he said begrudgingly. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the chess piece in the middle of the kitchen table.

Lydia’s eyes paused on Derek for a moment before continuing to the others.

“Uh,” Scott said with his hand on the back of his neck. “It’s been a while,” was all he admitted.

“I saw Stiles yesterday morning at breakfast,” John said, a hint defensively. He cowed under Lydia’s full glare. “He barely said two words to me.” His shoulders dropped. “We’ve barely said anything to each other in months.”

“Really?” Lydia threw up her hands in exasperation. “Is this still because of Donovan and Theo?”

Scott’s brow furrowed, “No. That was cleared up. Theo admitted to everything.”

“Yeah but you’re still treating Stiles like a murderer aren’t you?”

“It was a mistake. Theo had us all fooled,” Scott argued.

“I didn’t believe Theo,” Malia said bluntly. Then she amended herself under Lydia’s glare, “about Stiles I mean.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Lydia added, “I’m not totally free of blame in this. I’ve only talked to Stiles a couple times since I got out of the hospital but having venereal chimera claws in my neck screwing with my reality, I think I should get a free pass this time. How long would it taken for you guys to figure it out if I hadn’t been drawn here?”

No one met her eyes.

“That’s what I thought.” She didn’t sound very impressed.

The Sheriff dropped heavily into a chair. “Why would he leave now? If he was planning to leave for college in a few weeks anyway why is he running?”

There was silence as everyone pondered his words.

Lydia’s eyes were drawn, as were Derek’s, to the King sitting in the middle of the table. “He didn’t leave a letter,” she said quietly, trying to unravel the meaning out loud. “He left the chess piece. Why?”

Derek and the Sheriff shared a charged look. Derek looked away first. “No,” He grit out. “NO.”

“Sheriff?” Lydia snapped. “What does it mean?”

John was staring at Derek as though he was trying to figure it out for himself. “During the . . . Nogitsune . . . Stiles left his chessboard out as a clue. He flagged some of the pieces with names to give us an idea of their importance to the upcoming fight. Derek’s name was on the King, as the most important player.”

Lydia found herself reaching for the chess piece. Something was wrong about the Sheriff's theory but _what?_ As soon as her fingers closed around the wooden object she sucked in a shocked breath.

Too many images flashed past her eyes to keep track but she could **_feel_ ** the intensity of them. It was determination, fear, hopelessness, heartbreak—god—so much heartbreak, resignation, _love_ like she’d felt herself only once before, and peace. It was the peace that made Lydia feel like someone had stabbed her with a shard of ice.

 _Oh Stiles, you beautiful idiot_ , she thought sadly.

She jerkily let go of the chess piece. It dropped and skittered across the table.

“What? What—Lydia??” John was calling her name.

“What did you see?” Derek demanded.

She hiccoughed a laugh. There was no humor in the sound. She wasn’t _psychic_ but she was connected to Stiles so that meant _something._

“Derek wasn’t just the King because he was most at risk from the Nogitsune,” she gasped. A tear dropped from the corner of her eye. “He’s the King because he’s the most important person to _Stiles!_ ”

Derek made a horrible noise.

Lydia ignored everyone’s reactions, “He left. He’s not bothering with school. He’s not answering his phone--” Her hands were shaking. “Do you know why?” She dared the others to meet her gaze.

“We’ve been treating him like a murderer.” Scott admitted, his face hangdog with guilt.

“That’s part of it,” Lydia confirmed, not feeling any sympathy for the Alpha. She listed off what she knew, “He feels like he’s lost his best friend. His dad doesn’t trust him. He broke up with his girlfriend; and _all_ this after pulling us out of the fire and saving our asses one more time.” She turned to face Scott one on one. “Besides losing his father, what is Stiles’ biggest fear?”

It was sad that Scott had to take a moment to think about it, “His vision,” he breathed with growing realization. “He told me that if he’d found the best people in his life, why wasn’t he trying to stay with them instead of going our separate ways . . .” Scott’s voice trailed off. “Oh god.”

“He thinks he’s got nothing left,” Lydia murmured, eyes seeing far away.

The Sheriff made a sound like someone had stabbed him in the gut. “He’s not coming back.”

Derek stumbled away from the wall and towards them, hands out as though he could prevent them from coming to the same realization. “What? No, he wouldn’t do that--!”

It was like Lydia was still following the frail connection to Stiles that the chess piece left behind, like a vapor trail. “He left so that we wouldn’t be able to stop him.”

“Stop him?”

“From killing himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Stiles/Derek flashback scene will happen. Just not yet. :) Patience my pretties!


	4. Watch me bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this Chapter - Stitches by Shawn Mendez
> 
> *Lite smut warning ahead  
> **Bear with us folks as we make one more stop on the bus before reaching our destination
> 
> Thank you again for beta sweep by Desmen! Mwa!

When Stiles opened his eyes next, he was disoriented and groggy. He was having trouble focusing. Reluctant to move his head away from the faint scent of petrichor and leather, he rubbed his nose in the soft material under his cheek. “Mm--? D’rk--?” He mumbled sleepily.

The sound of his own voice brought him further out of his sleeping state and he blinked rapidly to dispel any lingering cobwebs. He pushed up on his forearms to get a look around himself, “Der--” His voice lodged painfully in his throat as he recognized the run down motel room, and not the loft, as his deceitful brain led him to believe.

His shoulders drooped and he pressed his burning face into the sheets. How many times could he relive that morning and die a little more inside?

“I can’t do this,” he whispered in agony. The sheets beneath his face grew damp with tears.

He’d been planning on paying for one more day at the motel just to rest; the thought of getting back on a bus again so soon made him itchy with anxiety but he realized he couldn’t. Staying in one place allowed his apparitions to catch up with him and he wasn’t done running. Maybe he never would be.

Snatching his phone and charger, Stiles rolled to the edge of the bed. Sniffling and rubbing his wet eyes on his jersey covered shoulders, he only took a moment to acknowledge the new messages before turning off his phone to preserve the battery. No point on dwelling on what was lost.

Man did he ever have to pee!! Stiles quickly gathered up his washing kit and hurried to the bathroom. As he relieved his overburdened bladder, he ran an exploratory hand down his smooth belly. Jeez, it was almost like he could feel how hard his bladder was. He poked himself with a finger, frowning. Was it supposed to feel like that?  It felt kind of like a golf ball of pressure in his lower belly. _Weird._

It figured. He goes on the lam and his body picks the perfect opportunity to get an infection or something. It’s not like he could just waltz into a clinic without coverage if he got ill. He doesn’t even have a backup Deaton.

He gave a mental shrug. Well, it might just be karma, or fate, or whatever.  He thought guiltily that if it were the case, it might take his decision out of his hands.

Then he smirked bitterly, _Yeah right.  Since when is anything I ever do easy?_

Stiles decided to ignore it for now. He took a quick shower, trying very hard not to touch the sides of the claustrophobic stall with his body. The whole shower area gave him the willies. He dried off with quick efficient swipes of the towel and practically leaped into clean clothes. They were wrinkled but otherwise fine. He pulled his red hoodie over a white t-shirt, and fiddled with the button of his black skinny jeans. It dug uncomfortably right into that tight spot on his belly. Stiles grimaced.

Sweeping through the room, Stiles packed up his belongings and checked out of the motel room. He headed for the diner next door, actually feeling hungry for once.

He slid into a booth in the back, instinctively placing his back to the wall. A sleepy looking waitress dropped a menu in front of him before hurrying away. Stiles flipped it open. They offered typical greasy spoon fare. Feeling nostalgic for the diner in Beacon Hills and his wistful longing for curly fries, Stiles lingered on the section displaying fried foods. It was mostly mid-morning now anyway. _Why not?_

Ordering a home-style cheeseburger combo with a chocolate milkshake, Stiles settled back into the well-worn booth to wait for his food.

When his order arrived he took his time with his food, not trusting his weirdly sensitive stomach. He didn't want to upchuck another meal. His eyes glazed over as he chewed and he managed to blink only when someone in the diner made a sudden movement that snagged his attention. Despite what seemed to be the better part of a full night’s sleep, Stiles still felt drained. It could be his cumulative insomnia, or it could be the weird flu he seemed to have but he totally wished he could curl up in a pile of blankets and not move again forever.

He was dragging his regrettably normal fries listlessly through a puddle of ketchup when he realized he was putting off going to the bus station. He suffered a moment of homesickness when he thought of his jeep and how much easier escape would have been if he could have just driven himself. Stiles swallowed down the bitter truth, his baby would have gotten him pulled over pretty damn fast. He likely wouldn’t have made it over the state line. He sighed heavily, no longer hungry.

Raking a hand restlessly through his messy hair, his fingertips linger over a healing scar right at the edge of his hairline. His breath hitched and Stiles found himself caught up in a memory,

_Its close quarters in the downstairs bathroom of the loft. Stiles sags loose-limbed against the toilet seat and waits as Derek rifles through the contents under the sink, pulling out a hefty-looking first aid kit._

_First he wets a clean cloth and presses it against the cut seeping from Stiles’ hairline. It’s at his crown, a deep split from where Theo had shoved Stiles headfirst into a wall to knock him out._

_“This is going to need a few stitches,” Derek said through tight lips._

_Stiles made a noise, his leg jigging nervously, “You any good with a needle there boss?”_

_There was a flash of teeth, “I might have done this once or twice,” came a rumble._

_Stiles’ dislike of needles had never really disappeared. So as Derek threads the needle with surgical thread, he tries to focus on anything else: the toilet roll that hasn’t been replaced; the bloody cloth in his lap,_ ugh okay no _; the bulky firm thigh that is radiating heat right next to his head . . ._

 _Stiles snaps his eyes back to the bloody cloth willing away the warm flutters in his belly._ Fuck. _He was all kinds of twisted up inside at the presence of the older werewolf. Derek’s reappearance just as things in Beacon Hills were getting shot to hell was extremely fortuitous for the pack, and for Stiles specifically._

_He represses a shudder at the memory of being strapped down to the gurney in the Dread Doctor’s lab. Theo, the complete ass, had gotten tired of baiting Stiles to go Void and had decided to push the matter by having the Doctors turn him into a Chimera. The memory of waking up in that freaky as fuck lab with the realization that no one knew where he was, nor cared enough to look, was almost enough to convince Stiles to give up._

_Clearing his throat Stiles says, “Thanks for, uh, getting me out of there.” He fiddles with the bloody tear in his jeans right above his knee. “I really wasn’t looking forward to barfing up mercury.”_

_Derek pauses in his work. His jaw locks. “This is going to hurt,” he nods to the needle in his hand._

_They had no anesthetic cream. So yeah, it was going to hurt like a bitch._

_Stiles juts his chin out in understanding. “Do it,” he says shortly._

_Stiles tries not to think about how Derek moves easily between his splayed knees. He tilts his chin up, eyes closed tightly. He had so many reasons not to look at the sight before him, concentrating on the pain seems like a saner bet._

_With his eyes closed he misses Derek swallowing at the sight of his long pale throat._

_Stiles braces himself against the first flash of pain and breathes out shakily as Derek literally sews his forehead back together. “Fuck,” he hisses sharply, “That hurts like a motherfucker!”_

_“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Derek asks. His voice is tense._

_Surprised by the question and distracted for a moment from the pain, Stiles gives it honest consideration. In the adrenaline fueled fight and flight from the Dread Doctors lab he hadn’t had time to really give himself a thorough once-over. There was the obvious gash on his forehead from Theo, and the tear in his jeans from his subsequent fall . . . then he had some torn up skin around his wrists from the shackles when he was struggling on the gurney. He didn’t need to tell Derek about those. Stiles furtively pulls his sleeves lower over his wrists to hide the evidence._

_Of course Derek catches the motion. He growls, “Stiles.”_

_The next jab with the needle isn’t so careful and Stiles shouts in pain, “Okay! Fine! My wrists, dammit!” He kicks Derek’s ankle in retaliation but the Alpha doesn’t even flinch._

_Derek finishes closing up the skin on Stiles forehead. He mops away the blood and unscrews the bottle of alcohol._

_Stiles grabs the bottle from him nervously, “Aheh, yeah no. You are enjoying this way too much. I’ll do this part.” He takes a clean gauze pad and soaks in in the alcohol. With a deep breath he slaps it on his forehead._

_“SON of a FUCKER!” He shouts as his whole body jerks with pain. Derek grabs his elbow before he can fall and give himself another injury._

_He may or may not hear Derek utter ‘Idiot’ under his breath._

_“Give me that,” Derek sighs. He takes the gauze from Stiles and dabs at his head. The burning is not as bad now and Stiles blinks up at the scowling Hale. Derek’s large firm fingers are gripping his jaw firmly while he attends to the wound to his satisfaction._

_Stile’s feels frozen in place. Derek is here and he feels safe. Safer than he’s felt in months. He thought he was going to die down in the lab. Alone. Theo took everything from him, everyone he ever cared about and nearly succeeded in destroying Beacon Hills. He would have, if Derek hadn’t shown up (Deaton and Chris Argent had been there too but really, Derek was the one who had ripped apart the Doctor who was about to inject him full of Chimera fluid). So._

_He’s so full of emotion he can’t help the painful ba-thump his treacherous heart makes. Crap. Stiles drags his eyes away from Derek and down to his wrists. He needs to deflect. He may have this long standing unrequited thing for Derek but he can’t let him figure it out._

_“So uh—so much for my first foray into bondage?” Stiles jokes weakly, poking at the bruised and bleeding skin around his wrists._

_The growling picks up again. “You think this is funny?” Derek snarls. He tosses the bloody gauze in the trash with a furious motion. Stiles shrinks back in self-preservation, there’s only so much room in this tiny bathroom and the angry werewolf is taking up most of it._

_Derek’s shoulders drop at Stiles’ flinch. The anger visibly drains away. “Jeezus, Stiles.” He breathes out. “You have no idea what you looked like when I got there.”_

_Stiles was confused. Was that concern? For him? He blinked rapidly, trying to process._

_Hands were heavy on his shoulder. Derek gave him a little shake. “You were just lying there--,” his voice dies out. “I thought you were dead.”_

_Stiles places a hand over the one on his shoulder, “Hey man, no need to add concussion to the list of injuries—!” Those hands were radiating heat and it was like there was an invisible line connected to the warmth pooling low in his belly. Shit! He couldn’t let—_

_“Stiles!” Derek said heavily._

_He lifted his eyes up slowly._

_His questioning sound is muffled by the sudden hard press of lips to his own. Stiles is shocked but his body had been craving this for so long it knows what to do way before his brain can catch up._

_He parts his lips; opens up to Derek’s searching tongue. Stiles makes a noise, embarrassingly needy but it’s swallowed by the hot werewolf mouth that hungrily covers his._

_His hands have grasped the shirt in front of him but despite the possibility of how colossally bad an idea this may end up being, he’s waited too long. He can’t find the strength to push Derek away and demand where the hell this is coming from. Instead, his fingers tighten on the grey Henley and tug their bodies even closer._

_Their lips are slick and hot as they kiss. As Stiles’ inhales shakily through his nose he is surrounded by the earthy scent that is Derek; freshly up-turned forest path, damp leaves, leather. It makes the desire gathering in his belly hot and insistent. His dick, which was already at half-mast just from being in such close quarters with his unrequited crush, is pooling with blood so fast it’s making Stiles woozy._

_Their lips part with a wet snick and Derek’s nose trails down Stiles’ neck. The older man’s hot breath is harsh against his skin and Stiles can’t help the shiver it evokes._

_“Derek?” Stiles breathes. His voice sounds wrecked._

_The werewolf in question pulls back and looks at Stiles with heavy lidded green eyes; the usual blue outer edge and brown flecks are almost nonexistent, his black pupils are blown wide with desire._

_The sight makes something in Stiles’ chest loosen and reach out. He feels his body relax._

_Derek’s fingers hover at the front of Stile’ pants. “Stiles,” he says meaningfully. The ‘do you want this?’ goes unspoken. It’s mostly eyebrow._

_It’s unfair how much he wants Derek, Stiles thinks as the seconds fly by. He trusts him. He’s safety. He’s home. Even muffled by the adrenaline, there’s the small flicker of hope that his feelings might be returned._

_“Fuck yes, Derek. Please.” Stiles breathes shakily._

_Everything is a blur as clothes get shredded and he’s being hoisted into the air. Lips are searching for his again and he meets them clumsily, eagerly._

_Yes._ God _, thank you._

Pressing his thumb and first knuckle into his eyelids to keep the tears at bay, Stiles quietly snuffled his disgusting wet nose. Giving up and rubbing his fist over his face to get rid of his loss of composure, Stiles pushed away his half-finished plate of food. He left a couple twenties on the table and got up, not willing to meet the eyes of the waitress, not even to settle the bill.

The air outside was dry and sweltering hot. He could feel sweat prickle under his shirt but he made no move to take off either the hoodie or the leather jacket. He reached into a pocket and pulled out the bus schedule.

It was time he got back on the road. Not much further now, he figured. He doesn’t think he can handle much more of this crap. Insomnia is one thing, but when you add the dreams and flashbacks to the mix . . .

His stomach was churning but so far the food managed to stay put. Stiles looked around himself for a moment. He contemplated taking a taxi to the bus station but it didn’t seem that far last night. He’d rather walk. Maybe it would clear his head. Or tire him out enough to nap on the bus.

The slender young man hitched his backpack over his shoulder and started off down the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed Derek is an Alpha again in this story. In my canon his 'Evolution' to full wolf was just part of inevitably healing after giving Cora his Alpha spark. It just took time to come back. Derek Hale will always be the Alpha in my book.


	5. Parallel Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here is the next installment. It's extra long for those of you who waited patiently for me to write this up. Well actually, it's extra long because apparently my muse wasn't satisfied with a short and sweet flashbk scene. You're welcome. Also, thank you Tumblr for the Sterek porn tag for inspiration. Seriously, someone is going to have to delete a certain file off my computer if I die. Kidding, I really don't care. It's never to late to get someone else hooked on Sterek, amirite? ;)
> 
> Song to listen to: Zara Larsson, MNEK - Never Forget You
> 
> Edited by the All-Patient, and Gracious Desmen who has not killed me yet for my blasphemous mangling of verbal tenses.
> 
> Additional Tags: Low esteem Stiles, Bad touch, Attempted non-con, Non-con drug use, Enthusiastic curse words, Smex, Sterek porn,
> 
> Heed the tags lovely people Mwah!

Almost a week later Stiles found himself in a dark pub in New Orleans called _Fe a Vé._ It was evening and he was tired. So tired. But the lobster bisque that he was slowly spooning into his mouth was surprisingly spicy and it was doing a good job of warming him up. Not that it was cold outside by any stretch, point in fact, his t-shirt and jeans were sticking to him rather sullenly. He just had this chill at his core that he couldn’t shake.

The pub was doing good business. It was a steady crowd, most of the people there were concentrated around the long bar or milling around the stage area where a live band was playing an energetic blend of blues/rock/soul. The singer reminded Stiles a lot of Elle King with her gravelly kitten voice.

God, what a shit week he’d had. Stiles sighed. He never wanted to drive through Texas again. Ever. Maybe it was just because he’d been on a bus too long, or because he was feeling too much like he’d spent it hanging over a toilet but Texas was ruined for him. He spent two days in a motel in Houston absolutely unable to do anything but throw his guts up and pass out. He was lucky the cleaning staff didn’t call an ambulance on him. Fuck, what a nightmare _that_ would have been.

So here he was in good ‘ol Nawlins and he didn’t dare indulge in one of the local ‘po-boys’, a meat or seafood-stuffed sandwich. It looked like something he could have inhaled on a normal day (His brain shied away from the thought that a certain crooked-jaw ex-best friend could have made _several_ disappear like it was some kind of magic trick). Unfortunately whatever bug he’d picked up was not keen on anything solid remaining inside his stomach. Maybe the bisque was a bad choice, what with the cream in the ingredients . . . okay . . . and maybe the seafood was also a gamble . . . but it had just smelled so _good_.

His spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl and drew his attention to the fact that he had successfully eaten the soup. Stiles sat deeper into the small booth he managed to occupy alone, attempting to ease the uncomfortable tightness of his jeans. The strange swelling in his belly hadn’t gone away and he was starting to wonder if it had to do with his flu symptoms. Maybe he had an intestinal blockage or something? He tried not to think about it because there wasn’t much he could do except take over-the-counter medicine to alleviate the symptoms. But it was hard when the feeling of pressure was always there to remind him whenever he leaned forward or rolled over in bed. He was sure he’d be more appropriately freaked out if he could find the energy.

He continued to ignore the pointed looks from other patrons who clearly wanted his table. He wasn’t in the mood to be accommodating. All he wanted to do was sit there and blink for a little while. And maybe some of his reasoning had to do with _motion_ and _stomach flipping_ and fucking _toilets_ that he didn’t want to take any chances reacquainting himself with. Right now his body was settled. His spark was quiet. Stiles just wanted to enjoy not being on a bus, or over a toilet, or running.

Stiles realized with kind of a slow mental lurch that he was _done_. He was at the end of the road. He wasn’t going any further.

New Orleans had always held his fascination. It had such a rich, diverse, cultural history. It was the location of several supernatural crossroads. The air was thick with mystery and magic and it had been drawing people to the area for hundreds of years. _Kind of like Beacon Hills_ , reflected Stiles, _but if I start dreaming of a stump, I’m out of here._

Even Dr. Deaton had a few contacts here. Stiles made a mental note to be vigilant. Word got around quickly in the supernatural community. New arrivals were always vetted somehow. He’d have to be careful to use his alias. _Good old Mieczysław_ , he thought dryly, _what a standup guy_.

For a while Stiles googled random things on his phone. He chose a nearby hotel within walking distance. There were no major festivals going on in the city right now so rooms were fairly accessible. Of course it was the beginning of August, one of the hottest months he could have chosen to be in a tropical swamp.

His phone vibrated with another incoming message. Stiles closed out the Yahtzee game he was playing and opened his messages, eyes shying away from the words that popped up. There were 32 from his father, 12 from Lydia . . . the rest Stiles didn’t bother examining. He felt his throat constrict before he could even go any further. He deleted all of them.

He did the same with his voice messages.

They had nothing to tell him that he wanted to hear. Stiles fingers tightened on the phone case until the tips were white and the plastic creaked ominously. They had their chance. He got the message loud and clear.

Stiles looked up briefly when the band finished their set and another began to set up. The lull in music made him fidgety and he wondered whether or not it was time to head out. The pub’s interior was darker, the windows at the front of the building showing that night had fallen. Dim lights and candles throughout the room changed the atmosphere. The supper crowd had cleared out.

The new band on stage started up with a thumping rock tune with just the right amount of southern snarl. Stiles eyed one of the empty stools still lining the bar and contemplated whether or not he’d get carded. Deciding a little bit of oblivion was worth the attempt, Stiles grabbed his backpack and slid from the booth.

Claiming one of the wooden stools, Stiles tucked his bag under foot and before straightening up, brushed a bit of his spark over the lump that contained all that remained of his personal belongings. He gave it just enough of his belief so that people’s eyes would slide over it and keep it invisible to theft. Satisfied, he straightened and pulled out his wallet.

It took a second to catch the eye of one of the bartenders but when he did it was a dark haired chick wearing a midriff-baring tank top that showcased a fantastic sleeve of vivid red and black _veve_ up and down one arm. Holy crap, he’d never seen that many symbols crammed so artfully on one limb. Either she was completely ignorant of their meaning or she had knowingly dedicated herself to serious spiritual custodianship.

“—can I get you?” the bartender called him back from his musings.

Stiles gave himself a mental shake. “Jack and coke,” he replied in what he thought was a confident (and of legal majority) voice. He placed the bill on the bar top and tapped his long fingers on the sticky surface while she got his drink ready.

She slid a low ball glass over to him but leaned closer. Confused, Stiles lifted his chin, following her approach. Heavily lined blue eyes leveled with him over the dark rim of glasses. She looked to be around his age. Maybe a few years older.

“You get the Jack next time, when you show me your ID,” she gave him the message. Her lips gave a little quirk.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Stiles just tightened his lips and nodded. No point in pushing his luck if she was already suspicious. He gave her a little salute with his glass.

He missed the sharp inhale she made as her fingers touched the ten dollar bill he’d placed down and the startled glance she shot him after. He was too busy spinning on the wooden barstool to evaluate the crowd gathering in front of the stage.

To his surprise he found himself enjoying the ramped up music. He was content to sit there on the stool, cradling an empty glass in his loose fingers. As long as the band played and he could watch the growing crowd his brain wasn’t picking at things he’d rather not think about. It was just loud enough to push them right out of his head.

“Not bad huh?” a voice cut in.

Raising his eyebrows when he realized the voice was addressing him and not someone else, Stiles turned his head to the neighboring chair and examined the guy making small talk.

He was nice looking, Stiles noted, tall but not scrawny like him. In the dim lighting of the pub his hair looked dark blond, straight; it was swept across his forehead in a careless fashion. Nothing stood out or set off any warning bells. Just a local dude by the cadence of his voice. He was wearing cargo shorts, a plain white t-shirt and scuffed up vans. Seemed to be about college age.

Stiles tipped his chin up in acknowledgement.

“The band, they got like a nice rock sound,” buddy continued on, “but they’ve tweaked some of their tunes from second line.”

It took Stiles a second to understand what he was saying. His face cleared. “You’re talking about parade music right?”

Buddy was grooving to the beat a little before he responded, his smile grew wider. Surprised maybe that Stiles even knew anything about it. “Yeah, sort of. Based upon if someone has passed away or whatever like that. To celebrate someone who died. Dancing is a big part of it.” He threw his hand out abruptly, “Name’s Ben.”

Stiles was a bit bemused. “Mitch,” he replied, remembering to use his alias. He shook Ben’s offered hand.

Ben leaned over the bar to get attention, “Can I get a Darkest before Dawn? And whatever this man’s drinking?”

“Oh, er, you don’t have t--!” Stiles protested weakly as the drinks were placed before them quicker than he could blink.

Ben leaned back with his foamy looking draft. He gave Stiles a wink, which made him feel a little uncomfortable. Wow. Was he _ever_ not looking to flirt or get it on or whatever the hell he might have been interested in however many months ago. Ben seemed chatty enough, and he was attractive but not really Stiles’ type. Then again his type . . . yeah, not going there.

Stiles took his glass from Ben with a murmured thanks. He missed the sight of the tablet that was dropped into his coke, which dissolved immediately.

They made small talk. Ben asked what he was doing in New Orleans and Stiles made up a story about going on a quick road trip before school.

“Oh yeah?” the blond perked up, “Where are you attending? I’m starting my second year in Health Sciences.”

There was a moment of panic before Stiles decided he’d just pick one of the other Pack’s destinations since he knew enough of their plans to bullshit his way through a few questions.

“MIT,” Stiles said, hoping the guy didn’t smell the shit he was shoveling.

“Wow.” His new friend said, looking impressed. “Smart and sexy!”

 _Oh wow bud_ , Stiles thought with a pang, _you must be desperate_.

Ben didn’t seem to be dissuaded by Stiles’ lack of conversation. He was content to chatter on about the band, some more info about the second line stuff, which admittedly, was fascinating. Stiles found himself relaxing. After a while, Ben’s stories about his first year at Tulane University had him smiling and responding (even if his comments were mostly fabricated it was nice to pretend for a moment that he was still going to school in a few weeks).

He was feeling kind of hypnotized by the sound of Ben’s voice. He blinked stupidly when the other man jumped down and held out his hand, “C’mon. I’ll show you some Buck Jumpin’. I’m not that great at it so ya’ll can feel free to laugh at me all you want.”

“Seriously?” Stiles couldn’t help the chuckle that burst out. “I’m like a spaz being tasered. I don’t have the right to mock anyone!”

It was kind of weird that his knees felt wobbly as he jumped down from the bar stool but it was a thought easily dismissed. He followed the back of Ben’s head into the crowd at the front of the stage.

Turned out that whatever dance moves Ben was trying to show Stiles looked surprisingly like a style he could embrace with a little practice. It was very freestyle and Stiles figured he could fake it with his Captain Jack-style flailing pretty well. He just needed to refine it. A little. Or a lot. Whatever. Ben’s feet on the other hand seemed to fly over the floor in complicated little moves that made it look like he was gliding on air. He coaxed Stiles into following in his footsteps and the both of them ended up barking with laughter as the younger man’s attempts cleared the space around them.

Stiles felt euphoric. He was unused to the grin stretched across his face.

The music was loud, the people around them seemed to dance in sync with pounding rhythm; the bass throbbed through his solar plexus almost forcefully. It was counterintuitive to how light his head felt, like it could almost float above the dance floor. In the dim lighting Ben’s smile was sharp, his eyes glittering.

The room loomed over him like it was shrinking. He was sweating. Stiles felt Ben bump up against his back, grasping his hips lightly in his hands. A little frown marred Stiles’ forehead. He was suddenly feeling kind of woozy.

“Feeling alright?” Ben asked in concern. His voice sounded muffled, like Stiles’ ears needed to pop.

Stiles looked over his shoulder, feeling confused. His brain felt cotton-y. “A little weak,” he mumbled.

Ben was close enough that he heard him even over the music. Stiles felt his breath moisten his ear and shuddered reflexively. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Those words sounded familiar, but wrong somehow.

“M’kay.” Stiles surrendered, head rolling back on the shoulder that was offered.

Nice, this felt nice. Stiles drifted as their bodies rocked to the throbbing music. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to remember. He could just let himself float . . .

Ben’s hips slotted right up against his ass. Hands were pulling him back so they could slow grind. There was something about that Stiles felt like he should be protesting but being maneuvered was oddly soothing. He felt protected, held in someone’s arms. Unknown to him tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes.

It wasn’t long before something long and hard was poking into his hip, his ass; demanding his attention. Stiles’ breath shuddered from his mouth, confused. He could feel his own dick filling with blood. _What?_ The shock jarred him from his complacency. It was like coming up for air. Stiles frowned. He didn’t . . . this wasn’t . . . he didn’t want that. The memory of changeling green eyes spurred him to protest. His body stiffened in Ben’s embrace. _No_.

“Shhh. It’s okay.” Ben hushed him, “I’m going to make you feel good.”

Stiles barely mindful that he was being led towards a shadowy corner. He might have whimpered but any sound he made was swallowed immediately by the crowd.

Then he was being propped against a wall, face first. Ben draped over his back possessively.

“N—n—” Stiles could only make strangled sounds of protest. His tongue felt numb. His brain was clawing for clarity. What was going on? He hadn’t touched a drink—how could he be so wasted?! The inner fire that housed his spark felt far away.

One of the hands shifted from his hip to his waist, fiddling with his button. He was distantly glad for the skinny jeans that inhibited Ben’s progress because it was clear what the other man was planning.

The hand shoved down the back of his pants and Stiles’ protest was muffled by the wall. There were fingers searching, grasping, and probing.

“Fuck,” Ben exhaled in his ear, his breath humid. “I can’t make up my mind if I want your mouth or your ass more.”

 _What?_ Stiles reeled with shock. He tried to get his arms up to push away but they were like jello molds of his actual arms; not real.

The rough brick was pressing against his cheek, the texture gritty and unyielding. Stiles closed his eyes and wished he were somewhere else.

 

_His world spuns as Derek lifted him into the air. He wrapped his long legs around Derek’s waist while struggling to pull the grey Henley over the man’s head. It was a bit of a juggle but not once does he worry about being dropped. There was a hot hand burning a brand on his ass while the other tugged him in by the back of his neck for another soul-destroying kiss. It was wet and demanding. Stiles surged forward like he wanted to pour himself down Derek’s throat._

_They slammed into the wall next to the bathroom. Stiles was pinned between the brick and Derek’s bare chest. He didn’t even notice the bite of the raw masonry scratching up his back. All he could think about was finally, finally, being touched by the man in front of him. The werewolf’s hips were slotted between Stile’s thighs. He could feel the burning ridge of the other man’s cock through the layers of remaining denim. Derek ground his hardness against his, making Stiles whine into their kiss.._

_“Derek!” Stiles wanted to be ashamed of how needy he sounded but goddamn it felt like he’d been dipped in lava and the only cure for it was more lava. Werewolf lava. His mind was babbling at him. Thank god his mouth was distracted._

_Stiles was thanking every deity he’d ever read about as his fingers spear through Derek’s silky black hair. He tugged on the locks in order to get Derek to tip up his chin. Stiles caught his bottom lip and sucked it into his mouth. The fingers on his ass dug in tighter in response and he moaned at the feeling. He flicked his tongue over the lip he’d been nibbling on before dipping his head to start licking and nipping at the man’s chin._

_Derek gave a full body shudder as Stiles’ teeth bit teasingly at his jawbone. The werewolf gave a low growl but not in warning.  At least Stiles didn’t_ think _so, based on the very obvious press of his erection. It was like a goddamn brand; searing a line of heat into his splayed thighs. The promise of it makes Stile’s toes curl in anticipation._

_“Derek,” Stiles panted, “Derek, please.”_

_“Fuck, Stiles.” Derek groaned in response._

_Stiles decided that Derek was still wearing too many clothes. His hands slid down those (oh my fuck) magnificent abs to the belt buckle which he undid with a perfunctory flick of his wrist. There was something under there he wanted. He made short work of the buttons and zipper, which was a challenge because of the large hot bulge pressing up against it. He was careful not to catch anything on the zipper. Cause ouch._

_Honest to god, Derek’s dick flopped out once Stiles pressed the zipper down (and of course he’d gone commando—). Like seriously flopped out. He felt faint. Derek’s dick was big and thick, obviously weighty since gravity tried to drag it down. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out to take it in his hand. It was searing hot. It twitched and filled more at his touch._

_Derek groaned as Stiles’ long slender fingers wrapped around his length. He stroked Derek’s cock like it was something precious, his whole hand glided over the silken skin, thumb sweeping over the tip, smearing the drooling pre-come over the shaft._

_“M’god, you’re uncut,” Stiles whimpered in awe. He chewed on his lip as he worshiped the sight of Derek’s gorgeous uncircumcised cock. Two hands were barely enough to encircle it, and Stiles had big hands with freaky long fingers. It was kind of intimidating._

_Derek bit down on the noise he wanted to make. God._ Fuck. _Stiles’ hands were lethal weapons._

_Stiles arched his back against the wall and squirmed in Derek’s arms until he could hook his toes in the material of Derek’s jeans. He pushed down with his feet until the jeans were in a pool around Derek’s ankles._

_“I need to get my mouth on you,” Stiles said determinedly._

_For a moment it looked like Derek is frozen. He glanced down at his pants and then back up at Stiles. One bushy caterpillar eyebrow lifted._

_Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes. It will shut me up.” He smacked Derek in the shoulder. “Let me down.” He sounded breathless even to himself._

_Derek lowered him to the floor and Stiles immediately dropped to his knees. For a moment he allowed himself to feel nervous because he’d never done this before. One hand was still stroking Derek’s amazing dick. He leaned forward and nuzzled the velvety tip with his nose, breathing in the musky scent. The smell was strong, both of them just having gotten back from a fight and still sweaty, but Stiles finds he doesn’t mind it. Maybe it was all the years hanging out in the locker room but the scent of Derek made him legit_ throb.

_With a groan, Derek couldn’t seem to help but thrust his hips forward and Stiles found the head pressing into his cheek, marking him with a smear of hot clear fluid. He kisses the shaft and his eyes fluttered shut as he guided the head into his mouth._

_The bitter taste of pre-come exploded on Stiles’ tongue. The realization hit him suddenly that he had_ Derek Hale’s _dick in his mouth. It felt like a religious experience. Stiles licked underneath the sleeved head, alternating with teasing little sucks. He may not have sucked a dick before but he was well known for his annoying oral fixation. He bet that it wasn’t so annoying now. Stiles grinned around Derek’s cock at the thought._

_He can feel Derek’s hands hovering around his head. He would tell Derek that it’s okay to touch him, hold his head and pull his hair except that would mean taking his mouth off the dick in his mouth. Uh, nope._

_With the hand that wasn’t twisting around Derek’s member, Stiles pushed his already undone jeans over his hips, freeing his own throbbing cock with a muffled moan of satisfaction. Derek hissed sharply above him, one hand spearing through Stiles’ short brown hair as the vibration traveled right to his heavy balls._

_Derek pulled his wet cock out of Stiles’ mouth with a reluctant gasp. Stiles pouted, “I was j--!”_

_He hauled Stiles up under his arms and swallowed any further protests with his mouth. Stiles sagged against Derek’s chest, into his warmth, while the werewolf chased his taste around Stiles pliant mouth. He tugged Stiles over to the couch in the middle of the room and pushed him down into the cushions._

_Stiles shivered in anticipation as Derek arranged him to his liking. He was on his front, his ass presented in the air shamelessly. He could feel the flush of arousal and embarrassment spreading from his face, down his chest. Derek hovered behind him on his knees, one large hand on Stiles’ porcelain hip, he grasped the handful of flesh like he wanted to part and view the most vulnerable part of Stiles’ body. Which he most likely did._

_The cushions on the couch shifted as Derek moved and Stiles couldn’t help his muscles from tensing. Even with his head turned to the side, Stiles was only getting a bit of the other man’s profile. He couldn’t see when Derek bent over to blow a warm breath on Stiles’ dark pink pucker._

_Stiles gasped and fisted the cushion under his chest._ Is he--?

_The first soft wet lick against his hole makes Stile’s brain go offline. He just couldn’t. God. He had no idea this could feel so good! His moan was broken. Derek’s tongue was firm and wet, leaving slick trails of saliva dripping from Stiles smooth balls as he nuzzled his scratchy face against his ass cheeks in order to lick deeper. Little licks trailed over his perineum. Deeper searching thrusts got closer to Stiles’ winking hole._

_Stiles was not ashamed to say his legs were shaking with the effort not to shove his hips back in Derek’s face._

_He fucking_ bleated _when Derek’s tongue pushed past his rim. He was quivering, his breath sobbing from his mouth. He tried to muffle the embarrassing noises with his fist but Derek grabbed his wrist and pulled it behind his back. The slick, searching sensation and the wet sloppy noise of Derek fucking him with his tongue was almost enough to make Stiles come untouched, he grabbed the base of his dick firmly with his free hand and fought for control._

_When Derek lifted his head Stiles makes a sound of loss, a stuttering protest. His hole felt wet and cold. His balls were aching. He needed more. He was rewarded when he felt Derek rub his taint with the rough edged flat of his thumb. Stiles shivered with pleasure. He could hear Derek’s harsh breathing and was reassured that he wasn’t the only one affected._

_“We need lube,” Derek rumbled in a disgruntled voice._

_What? Oh. Oh shit. Stile’s flush burned hotter. He probably looked like a tomato by now. He tried to get his brain to work. Because yes, Derek’s huge werewolf dick going in dry was not a thing he would enjoy._

_Stiles flapped an arm towards the end table, “Nrg--!” He tried again, “Hand cream. Girls. Pack night.”_

_Derek thankfully understood Stiles-ese. He leaned over Stiles to search for the aforementioned cream and Stiles brain shorted out again at the press of Derek’s naked body against his. He maybe drooled into the pillows a bit. Returning to his spot, Derek cracked open the werewolf-friendly scentless hand cream that Lydia left behind ages ago. Stiles made a mental note to send a thank you card and a new bottle of hand cream to his strawberry blond goddess for literally saving his ass._

_There was a rude sounding ‘_ splort!’ _from the moisturizer bottle as Derek squeezed some out. Stiles bit down on his lips to hold back the hysterical giggle that threatened to burst out. Instead he buried his flushed face into a cushion. He was nervous but he wanted Derek so much. He’d dreamed of this . . . never thought it was possible—_

_A reassuring hand caressed the curve of Stile’s spine. It joined the one parting his cheeks and Stiles shivered as the finger ran down the length of his cleft._

_“It’s okay Stiles,” Derek’s voice resonated somewhere deep inside Stiles, “I’ve got you.”_

_Stiles’ breath hitched with unexpected emotion but he breathed out a sigh at the reassurance and relaxed into Derek’s grip._

_A slick finger circled his puckered hole and pressed slowly inward. Stiles groaned low in his throat. He’s played with his own ass before but it was completely different having Derek opening him up._

_He could feel the restrained tension in Derek’s hands. He could guess the older man was holding back for his benefit. The thick thighs bunching at the back of Stiles’ legs twitched with anticipation. The wet brush of what he guessed to be Derek’s cock, nudged against the soft cushion of his balls. Stiles sucked his lower lip into his mouth. Glancing at the view behind him, his breath shuddered out of his mouth on a fervent swear._

_It seemed Derek agreed with him. The sight of Stiles looking over his shoulder as the werewolf pressed his fingers into his tight clenching passage was enough to make the man shoot a quick breathless look at the ceiling. “Fuck--!” He strained. A spurt of pre-come burbled from the head of his dick to drip down Stile’s pale inner thigh._

_“Holy shit--!” Stiles whimpered. “I need you inside me. Now. Derek!”_

_Derek fought not to pop his claws. “Stiles!” he panted open-mouthed. He felt drunk on Stiles’ scent. It was a heady blend of sweet grass and thunder. He wanted to fill his lungs with it._

_Derek is barely patient enough to work three fingers into Stiles’ ass but any less and he would hurt him. He made sure to squeeze another generous glob of moisturizer on his palm to coat his overheated shaft. He stroked himself lazily while pressing one hand down on the small of Stiles’ back._

_Stiles was demanding Derek fuck him and it was all Derek could do not to just bury himself to the hilt. He pursed his lips, a sheen of sweat glistening at his temples. He refused to hurt Stiles no matter what._

_Stiles jumped when he felt something bigger than Derek’s fingers pressing at his entrance. He practically sobbed, making grabby hands behind himself. Huffing out a fond-sounding noise, Derek grasped those hands in one of his. It helped ground Stiles and he whispered shakily. “Please--!”_

_Stiles inhaled sharply as the head of Derek’s cock pushed past the tight ring. There was a blinding flash of pain. His fingers clawed at Derek’s wrists but he didn’t ask him to stop. He breathed shakily into the feeling of having something large and foreign in his ass. It was exciting too though and that was what got him past the fleeting pain. He_ wanted _Derek inside him. It was worth a little bit of discomfort._

_“You okay?” Derek asked, sounding tense._

_“Hnng!” Stiles replied. His eyelids fluttered and he forced himself to give a more coherent answer. “God, yes!” He shifted back on his knees, demonstrating his eagerness._

_Derek grit his teeth and sunk forward slowly, letting Stiles adjust to the penetration._

_“Fuck!” Stiles gasped, his legs quivering as Derek’s balls nudged up against his. “I think you found my liver!”_

_Rolling his eyes Derek replied with a wicked glint to his eyes, “Not good enough. How ‘bout I find your throat?”_

_Stiles’ startled bark of laughter cut off into a moan as Derek began to move._

_Releasing Stiles’ hands, Derek draped himself over his back, wrapping one arm around Stiles chest, bracing the other against the couch to hold himself up. He thrust slowly but with a corkscrewing motion to his hips that immediately made Stiles want to lose his mind. His cock had never been harder in his life._

_If he wasn’t already in lo—_

_Fuck it. Who was he kidding? It was impossible to deny his feelings for Derek while the man in question was mounting him from behind. He fucking loved Derek Hale. He was a grumpy fucking asshole Alpha but god help him he loved the man._

_“So tight,” Derek groaned into the back of his neck, “Stiles . . . jeezus.”_

_Stiles shivered at the press of lips against his nape. There was a brief pinprick of teeth and Stiles was sure every muscle in his body simultaneously seized. “Oh fuck!” He shouted as his orgasm caught him by surprise. His cock pulsed a stream of come as his eyes rolled back in his head. He reached back for Derek blindly with one arm._

_“That’s it,” Derek grunted. Stiles’ muscles rippled and clenched around his member and he picked up the pace, feeling a buzzing at the back of his spine that warned him he was about to blow. As Stiles went limp, he locked his elbows and pounded into the slick hot passage offered up to him. His face is frozen in an animalistic snarl._

_Stiles is chanting his name. The needy sound ignites his blood and he was sure his eyes were burning Alpha red. He wanted to fill the human with his seed. He realized distantly that he was a hairs breath away from losing control._

_Derek’s stomach muscles contracted with the force of his orgasm. He threw his head back with a final hip bruising thrust and snarled loudly as he emptied himself into Stiles. His hips jackknifed as his release jetted deep within the younger man. It overflowed out and trickled down the back of Stiles thighs. Derek huffed possessively at the sight._

_Stiles was breathing harsh and quick, his mouth wide open as he tried to recover. He felt fuzzy with shock. He came a second time as Derek relentlessly hammered into his prostate towards the end. Holy fuck—_

_Twisting around Stiles leaned back for a kiss. Still feeling dazed, Derek languidly slid his mouth over Stiles reddened swollen lips. They were content to make out for the moment while their racing heartbeats settled._

_“Well, I don’t know about you,” Stiles murmured between teasing pecks, “but give me ten minutes and I’m good to go again.”_

_Derek pulled his head back to give him an unreadable look. Stiles heartbeat stuttered nervously at the expression. There was a split second of doubt—_

_“Yeah?” Derek said, an almost unnoticeable quirk to his lips. “Ready whenever you are.” His cock throbbed inside of Stiles as if making his point._

_“Omigod,” Stiles almost smacked himself in the face as he flailed. “You ass!”_

_If Stiles felt weak with relief he hid his reaction._

_“Mmm,” Derek replied burying his face behind Stiles’ ear. The young man shivered at the heat of breath on his neck. “Let’s take this upstairs.”_

_Goddammit. His heartbeat was going to give him away as it tripped over Derek’s words. He was going to be in Derek’s bed . . . holy shit. This was a dream come true!_

Don’t let this night end . . .

Stiles blinked the memory away. He was confused and devastated as the surroundings of the bar replace the safe spot in his mind he just withdrew to. It was like a physical blow to realize that the hands groping him weren’t in fact Derek’s but a complete stranger’s.

“—you drugged me?” Stiles slurred.

Ben was sucking hickeys onto his neck. Stiles wanted to pull away but he was still pinned against the wall. The invasive wet heat of the mouth on him was making Stiles nauseous. Thankfully Ben hasn’t seemed to have progressed much further than fondling but the way he was tugging at the front of Stiles’ jeans, Stiles doubt’s it’s going to stay that way.

“I just gave you something to relax,” Ben soothed him, finally getting the button of Stiles jeans open. “Just enjoy yourself, baby.”

“—fking stop—!” Stiles tried to hold himself rigid but his muscles were soup. Ugly tears were streaking down his cheeks.

An unwelcome hand slid down Stiles’ belly.

Everything. Stopped.

As soon as Ben’s fingers brushed over the weird swollen lump that’s been bugging him lately, it’s like Stiles instinctively dives for his elusive Spark and comes up **_blazing._**

His spark evaporates whatever rohypnol shit or whatever Ben slipped him and Stile’s mind cleared with almost painful intensity. He furiously jammed his sharp elbow into Ben’s stomach. Ben staggered back with an ‘Oomph’, folding over holding his guts. Stiles just barely managed to keep himself from throwing punches but even now his mind was whispering how that might get him tossed in jail and he couldn’t risk it.

“Fuck you!” Stiles bellowed, his voice cracking. He was drawing the attention of some people who were previously ignoring the shadowy corner. His face was hot with shame. Stiles fumbled to refasten his pants while wiping his wet face off on his shoulder. “You fucking disgusting prick!” he snarled.

The bartender from earlier, the girl with the cool tattoos was pushing her way through the gathered crowd but Stiles couldn’t stick around to answer questions about what happened. He was barely holding back a panic attack. He needed to get the fuck out.

Diving into the crowd with years of practiced experience of dodging various bad guys, parental figures, and now wanna-be heroic bartenders, Stiles weaved around curious bystanders, scooped up his hidden backpack and made for the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about Stiles: He has no idea he's pregnant. Not a clue. Mpreg doesn't happen naturally in this world. This is not a conclusion he will come to on his own. Any action he takes that would be discouraged or harmful during a regular pregnancy are done without his knowledge. Incidentally by Ch. 5 Stiles is approx. 8 weeks along.
> 
> Also, I have never been to NOLA. Or the US, except for Disney World but that doesn't count so any logistical or cultural faux pas I make are done with my humble apologies.


	6. No Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh holy god. Six thousand words. I'm dedicating this chapter to GrandSpark and Taori for hanging in there like super-troopers. I hope your refresh button survived, GS. 
> 
> Now. All the WARNINGS. Heed them my ppl. If you have a trigger it's better to be safer than sorry because I cannot guarantee my work will not set you off. I try to cover it all in my tags and in my notes but I'd be there forever so yeah. Triggers. I can empathize because I too have them, it is partly why my work takes so frickfracking long to get out. This chapter alone had me squirming, crying, and avoiding. That and the motherfing migraine.
> 
> Also this bit hasn't been beta'd yet in my hurry to push it out there. Patience my pretties. 
> 
> Song inspiration: What have you done (feat. Keith Caputo) - Within Temptation AND Permanent - David Cook

Stiles didn’t get very far before he was running blindly into a wall, shoulder first. He didn’t even feel the pain from the collision, he just allowed his legs to fold underneath him. He slid the rest of the way to the ground.

He drew his knees up to his chest and speared his hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. His thoughts were spinning in nauseous loops. _Was he still high? Or was he just almost ra--_  

 _No, no. Nope._ His shit luck wasn’t that shitty was it? The guy, _Ben_ , had seemed so harmless. Why did he drug him? Tears burned Stiles’ eyes. What was it about him that screamed ‘hey this guys a joke, come fuck with his head some more?!’

Fingers scrabbling for the zipper of his backpack, Stiles pulled out the leather jacket and dragged it to his face. The familiar leather didn’t ease his panic completely but it was a piece of home. His breathing was short and hitched. He wasn’t getting enough air to his lungs. He recognized the signs of a panic attack in the pins and needles sensation burning his hands, feet and face that precluded unconsciousness—great, just what he needed.

He struggled for control. If he passed out in the entryway of some alley in New Orleans what started in the pub earlier might just end up being just the fluffy teaser. Stiles was scared, and lost and hopeless. He wanted to call someone for help; his dad, his friends, Derek.

Stiles thumped his head hard against the wall in a bitter reality check. He had no one. No one was coming to save him.

Squeezing the jacket tightly, he tilted his head up and looked at the sky, tears spilling down his cheeks. It was a clear night but there were very few stars to be seen here with the light pollution of the city. Didn’t matter anyway, whatever Ben had slipped him was still making his surroundings smear together like looking through a rainy window.

“Why?” He questioned out loud. “Why was I never enough?” His voice was raw with devastation.

He scrubbed at his wet face with the back of his fist but it was hopeless, tears just kept falling.

“Derek, why--?” His voice choked off.

Whether it was the drugs still swimming in his blood or his need to numb the bleeding hole in his chest, Stiles found himself pulled down into another memory,

 

_Beds were so much better for this, thought Stiles as he bounced off Derek’s mattress, having been tossed there by the rather impatient Alpha werewolf. The action itself was enough to renew his arousal, not that it was hard to do in present company. Stiles was discovering being manhandled was definitely a kink of his. He kind of suspected that his kink was a little more specific. As in; tall, frowny, secretly sassy werewolves that talked in monosyllables, used brute force, recently saved his hide (again) (not a damsel in distress—hey!), and lit him up like a roman candle with a single touch._

_Pushing up to his elbows, Stiles silently observed Derek as he walked (stalked—how he moved couldn’t even be considered as unassuming as a walk) around the large bed to turn on a lamp. The light was dim, just enough for reading, if a werewolf with supernatural eyes sat right on the edge of the mattress. Gah, even his thoughts were fried by the fact that he was watching Derek casually walk around his bedroom stark naked._

_Stiles grasped his rapidly filling cock, chewing anxiously on his swollen lips. He was transfixed by Derek’s shadowed profile. God, what a beautiful man, he reflected with a respectful gleam in his eyes. It wasn’t just the physical attributes he appreciated either. No other man had earned his respect like Derek Hale. It probably went without saying that he really, really, had to work for it too. So there was that._

_When Derek finally turned and caught sight of Stiles splayed out on his bed, long spider fingers tugging his already firm cock, Derek went stock-still and let his eyes hungrily take their fill of the provocative image._

_Stiles breath stuttered at the predatory gleam in Derek’s eyes. He wasn’t used to being the focus of that heated gaze. Not from him. It made his heart do funny things. He was sure Derek could hear it. It would have made him nervous but his body was still glowing from post coital haze, and the fact he could feel Derek’s spend still trickling from his hole. It made it kind of pointless to be self-conscious now._

_Slowly and deliberately, Derek began to prowl his way onto the bed and over to Stiles. If Stiles found it hard to breathe before, the sight of the werewolf looming over him with such intense focus made all the hairs on his body stand to eerie attention. It was a primal response. His pulse was suddenly racing at the nearness of a predator. He had never felt so vulnerable before, not with this kind of painful intimacy. His chest was heaving with short, quick breaths. He swallowed convulsively, “Derek.”_

_Derek rumbled his name, “Stiles.” His eyes were flickering back and forth from their natural kaleidoscope green to Alpha crimson._

_Stiles’ cock jerked and dribbled at the sound. He whimpered. Fuck. Holy fuck._

_Derek was now crouching over him, his nostrils flaring as he took in their combined scents. It was a powerful mix and it was doing something to his brain. Stiles was in_ his _bed, smelling of arousal, of_ them _._

_When Derek dipped his head down towards Stiles, still rumbling deep in his chest, Stiles instinctively turned his head to the side, baring his long neck to the Alpha in submission. He froze as he realized after the fact what he’d done but Derek was already changing the pitch of his rumble to something sounding vaguely like satisfaction._

_Stile’s throat clicked dryly as Derek’s nose ran up the slender column of his neck. He shivered at the whuff of breath against his prickling skin. He wanted to arch into Derek’s hovering body, grab hold, and pull him down but instead he dug his fingers into the bedding in attempt to stay still, knowing somehow that it was important._

_He didn’t know what had changed but the atmosphere was definitely different. It was charged. Derek was more wolf-like in his actions, as though he was going more on instinct than he had before._

_Stiles bit back a moan as Derek’s hot wet tongue retraced the path along his neck. He couldn’t help the whimper that escaped. His neck was a huge erogenous zone. He didn’t like to think about that coincidence and what that meant for him and his usual company, except right now it was totally working in his favor._

_“Fuck—” Derek growled with his thankfully still blunt teeth around Stiles’ throat, “I want to taste you--!”_

_That gave Stiles a full-body shiver of arousal despite himself. “No turning, Derek!” he struggled to say in a firm voice. Whatever primal mood was striking Derek, Stiles still didn’t want to be a werewolf. “Hickies, yes please! Love nips, sure. No KFC Stiles!”_

_Derek dropped his head against Stiles shoulder and snorted._

_That seemed to reign cave-Derek back. Stiles grinned at the ceiling._

_Lifting his head, Derek had the faintest twitch to his lips. “You’re an idiot.”_

_Unrepentant, Stiles shrugged with a smirk._

_The smiles on their faces dropped as their gazes stayed locked on one another. They stared searchingly. For what, neither had a clue. Stiles wet his lips nervously with his tongue and Derek dropped his gaze to stare at the movement. He seemed transfixed by Stiles’ glistening pink mouth, slightly swollen from his scruff. His bow-shaped mouth parted further in a needy pant as the seconds ticked by._

_Finally they lunged towards each other as though hearing some kind of silent starter-gun. Stiles made a relieved whine as he scrambled to pull Derek closer. Their kissing was hungry, sloppy and open-mouthed. Derek nipped at Stiles’ lips, sucked on his tongue, making Stiles’ hips thrust up as the sensation jolted hot and sharp through him. He was pleasantly surprised to feel his cock brush Derek’s and so he repeated the motion._

_Stile’s was of the opinion that their bodies fit together perfectly. They were almost the same height; he was only an inch or so shorter. Pressed together like this, the slight difference was the equivalent of a lock and key. Derek with his bulky Alpha definition was one piece, and Stiles was the lithe and athletic complement. The best part was he didn’t have to reach up or bend down to kiss Derek, and he could grind against him at the same time._

_He doesn’t want to stop kissing Derek. Ever. Stiles cupped Derek’s chiseled face, thumbing the sharp curves of his stubbled jaw as he leisurely enjoyed tasting and teasing the werewolf with his sinuous tongue._

_Derek slid his hands behind Stiles’ hips and tugged until their bodies were flush and their cocks were grinding messily together, eased by the slide of pre-come. Stiles mouth dropped open with a shameless moan. “Mmm—ugh, fuck!”_

_Spearing his hands in Derek’s soft black hair, Stile’s was almost overwhelmed by the sensations. Derek marked his throat and shoulders, nipping and laving at his collarbones so that the pale expanse was bruised with the imprint of his mouth._

_When Derek leaned back on his knees Stiles was embarrassed by the cry of loss he failed to hold back. He wanted Derek’s firm weight pinning him down. Something about it made him feel safe. Wanted._

_Goddamn but wasn’t that a smug ass look on Derek’s face. Stiles doesn’t get a chance to pout. There are fingers trailing down his chest, brushing feather-light over his hard pink nipples. Stiles hiccoughs a startled breath as the barely there touch makes his stomach muscles clench._

_“So responsive,” Derek hummed, his eyes staying crimson._

_“Oh god,” Stiles moaned. He’s so painfully hard. He needed something . . . he needed . . . he needed Derek. He reached out and slapped Derek’s chest, fingers trailing through the dark curls that lead down to his bobbing cock._

_Eyes flashing, Derek reached under Stiles with one hand, grasping him by a shoulder and under one knee. The world spun confusingly for a moment before Stiles realized that Derek has flipped him onto his belly on the mattress. Holy shit that’s hot._

_He peered down between his body and the mattress and saw Derek shuffling up behind him. His long gorgeous cock was cradled in one of his hands. As Stiles watched, a clear strand of pre-come drooled from the tip and hung suspended. Stiles’ body shuddered in anticipation. He knew now what it was like to have Derek filling him up and he wanted that. He wanted that with a kind of desperation that evaporated humility._

_“Derek, please,” Stiles moaned, wiggling his hips._

_The rumble in Derek’s chest was a borderline growl as Stiles’ displayed his pale pink flesh in a way that makes him absolutely_ snarl _with impatience. He gripped Stiles’ ass in his palms, squeezing and kneading the round muscles, brushing his thumb over the constellation of moles that decorated his backside. He wanted to trace each one with his tongue but he was almost mad from the overpowering scent of arousal of the male underneath him, he was not going to be able to hold back much longer._

_Stiles felt Derek part his cheeks and bit down on his knuckles in order not to make a sound. He could almost feel the heaviness of the gaze on his hole. He knew his face was burning. He couldn’t help it. He has never been so exposed._

_Derek was transfixed as he ran a finger over the puffy little pucker that now smelled like a combination of Stiles and him. He rubbed the sensitive furl and rumbled approvingly when the muscle fluttered in response. A trickle of creamy white jizz beaded out at his urging and Derek’s mouth dropped open in order to maximize intake of the scent. He panted heavily at the essence of Stiles/Derek on his senses. It was overpowering and shook something loose deep within him. It felt wild and feral. He knew he was hovering on the edge of control._

_Rubbing the head of his cock against Stile’s taint, Derek possessively smeared his pre-come into the mess from earlier. Stiles mewled into the sheets._

_“Derek, Derek—you need to get in me! Or I swear--!” Stile’s babbled breathlessly, slapping at the werewolf’s knee._

_Catching both of Stiles’ hands Derek placed them above his head and pressed them down firmly. Stiles got the hint and clasped his hands, his knuckles straining against his urge to disobey. Stiles pressed his forehead to the mattress, rolling his sweaty brow in the soft sheets._

_Looking down at the splayed out body offered before him, Derek held himself with almost rigid focus. He was covered in a glistening sheen of sweat. There was a haze dropping over his eyes and it was feverishly demanding he_ take _._

_Stiles jolted as a finger probed at his entrance. He exhaled shakily in realization. His arms strained as the finger slid into him easily, aided by the copious deposit from before. He blew out a breath as the finger twisted, testing how much he needed to be stretched out again._

_Derek deemed him able to take two easily, and slipped in the extra finger without warning. The fingers corkscrewed, the motion making a lewd squelching sound from the sloppy mess it stirred up._

_“Ah! God! Dude!” Stiles cried out._

_“Don’t call me dude,” Derek nipped his shoulder._

_Stiles gurgled helplessly._

_It seemed like an eternity before Stiles could feel Derek lining his cock up with his slippery hole. Derek climbed up the back of Stile’s parted thighs, pressing his bulkier thighs right over Stiles’. His long cock disappeared into Stiles as Derek blanketed his back, pressing his hands into the back of Stiles’ hips. It forced him to arch in a sharp curve._

_There was no warning when Derek thrust home with a vicious snarl. Stiles shouted at the sudden fullness. Toomuchtoofullgodohfuckyesfuckfuck!! Any pain from the intrusion disappeared with a suspicious tingle that indicated that Derek was using his werewolf-y powers. Cheater. Not that Stiles cared. Derek was_ in _him._

_Wishing he could see what they looked like, Stiles imagined the way Derek must look hunched over his body. He moaned as his cock throbbed where it was trapped against the rucked up sheets. It was a hot mental image. In fact, from where Stiles could feel points of contact, he was pretty sure he had been mounted with a capital ‘M’. That thought shouldn’t make him almost nut off but it’s a near thing._

_He didn’t have much of a chance to catch his breath before Derek was using his contortionist powers over Stiles to start hammering at his spine from the inside. There is no sign of the considerate wolf from the couch earlier, he was acting feral; and it just turned Stiles on even more._

_“Oh Christ!” Stiles whined, his toes cramping as his prostate was relentlessly hammered by the heavy full drag of Derek’s cock. He didn’t think he could take much more before he combusted. He was going to die on Derek’s dick. Happily._

_Stiles’ face was contorted in a mix of pain and wanton bliss. He wanted to warn Derek he was going to come. His lips parted and his mouth slackened as the pressure built._

_Derek must have sensed something, felt the body around his tighten up. There was no other explanation for the sudden brush of scruff against Stiles’ bare shoulder and the following flare of sharp, hot, pain._

_“Mine!” Derek growled around the flesh clamped in his mouth._

_Unaware of the downright pornographic sound coming out of his mouth, Stiles surroundings whited out. His whole body seized as his balls drew up like they were climbing into his chest cavity. Blissfully unaware, Stiles shot a creamy stuttering stream of come straight up to his chin._

_Goaded by the way Stiles’ body clamped down around his driving cock, Derek’s hips pistoned furiously against the boy’s jolting ass. The sound of the harsh fucking echoed wet and loud in the darkened bedroom._

_Derek wanted to bury himself deep. He was chasing the edge of something that was blurring his surroundings in red. As much as he reveled in the fact that he made the body beneath him pliant with satisfaction, there is an itch at the back of his skull. He’s not done yet._

_Stile’s eyes snapped open with dismay when he felt Derek pull out. Instantly he was bereft. Empty._

_“Nnugh!” He wasn’t even coherent but he made his dissatisfaction known by reaching back for Derek. He only had a split-second to think about twisting in place to make his protest more physical when he found himself flipped once more by demanding hands._ Woah, dizzy.

_He blinked up at Derek in a daze. “Der’k—” His voice sounded raspy even to his own ears._

_Derek rumbled at him reassuringly, dipping his dark head down quickly to sweep his tongue through the mess smeared on Stiles’ chest before pressing a quick kiss to his lips._

_The taste of his own come jolted him out of some of his shock. Stile’s smacked his lips together, finding it not unpleasant; more interested in the delivery. His attention was drawn back to Derek when his legs were pushed up and back, aligning him with Derek’s slick looking cock. He made a needy noise. “Yes. Please, Derek. Please.”_

_Shuffling forward, Derek gripped the back of Stiles’ knees and spread him out. The pink, swollen pucker hungrily drew him back in. Derek didn’t stop until he was flush against the back of Stile’s pale thighs; and even then he lunged forward as though he could somehow get deeper._

_Stiles cried out as he was filled once more._ So full. Fuck. _He was shivering and overwhelmed. He gripped the back of Derek’s neck for something to hold onto, to stop his hands from shaking. He stared up at the scruffy-faced man who had taken up residence in his heart years ago and felt the last of his self-defenses crumble to dust._

_They’ve saved each other. So. Many. Times. He’d barely had a chance to process Derek’s death/full-wolf-evolving/driving off into the sunset in Mexico. Something died inside him in order to be able to pretend everything was back to normal last summer._

_Tonight Stiles had been prepared to die alone in the Dread Doctor’s lab. Theo’s plans had all gone to shit despite all his sociopathic efforts and he had seemed reconcile himself with taking revenge on Stiles. Without the promise of a Pack (or a best friend) to come to his rescue he wasn’t ashamed to say he’d all but given up._

_Then Derek had burst into the lab, followed closely by Chris Argent and Deaton (that enigmatic motherfucker) and even now it’s hard to comprehend the utter blinding_ relief _Stiles had felt at the sight of the red-eyed (and wasn’t that a story he had to hear later) werewolf. His heart had probably done some rather embarrassing stutter stops; thankfully covered up by the ensuing fight._

_That he could have this—_

_It felt so unreal. So fucking amazing. Stiles didn’t want it to end. He wanted Derek to press him down into the bed forever. Here in Derek’s arms he didn’t feel empty, or scared, or forgotten. He was happy._

_Derek’s eyes were intense; laser-like and focused on the way Stiles was reacting to him. His usually stoic face was uncharacteristically transparent. There was raw hunger, urgency, possessiveness, even maybe a little concern. It made Stiles’ heart feel like it was too big for his chest._

_“Fuck,” Derek sounded gutted, “Stiles. So good.”_

_Stiles did not mewl. That was not what that sound was. Holy god._

_He couldn’t do much more than hang on as Derek drove into him, his hands slipped from the back of Derek’s neck, down over the coiling muscles of his broad, sweat-slick shoulders, down his arms where Derek captured his hands and wove their fingers together, placing them next to Stile’s head._

_Derek’s pace was brutal. Stiles was squirming. Everything was too much. Too good, too sensitive, his emotions were overloading. His eyelashes were dark and clumped together with overwhelmed tears. He barely noticed there was something going on with Derek’s dick._

_Until he could no longer ignore there was some kind of . . . swelling going on around the base. It was catching on his poor abused rim. Stiles made a punched-out sound, his brown eyes, chocolate in the darkness, darted up in confusion and a little bit of fear. “Derek--? What?”_

_Derek’s head was bent next to Stiles’ ear. Still in some kind of wolf-ish rut he didn’t seem too forthcoming. He did manage to grunt out something sounding suspiciously like ‘knot’ before both men were distracted by the stutter in his rhythm._

_Not? Knot? Nut? Stiles’ mind babbled as he cringed through the pain of whatever Derek was stabbing into his sensitive bits._

_Stiles’ brain shorted out when he put it together. There was some learning curve in being the ex-best friend of a veterinary assistant._ Oh my everloving f—

_The bulge was splitting him apart. Stiles back arched with pain and he tried to jerk his hands out from Derek’s._

_“Shh--” Derek hushed him, his breath hot and gravelly in his ear. His thrusts were impeded by the swelling of his knot so he settled for short aborted thrusts dispersed with grinding._

_That was better, even though the bulge was now dragging continuously over Stiles’ prostate. Sparks of hot electric pleasure built in the base of his spine. His cock was bravely making another appearance, trapped against the ridges of Derek’s ridiculous abs. There was still pain but it was fading into the background._

_“Derekderekderek,”Stiles chanted his name breathlessly._

_Freeing one of Stile’s hands, Derek reached between their bodies for Stile’s leaking cock. When his fingers wrapped around the hard flesh Stile’s eyes rolled up in his head with a garbled curse. It only took a few tugs before Stile’s stiffened, his eyes searched out Derek’s at the same time as Derek’s thumb swept over the slick head of Stiles’ cock._

_“Oh god,” Stiles choked as he came for the third time that night, “I love you. S’much.”_

_The breath shuddered from Derek’s body as Stile’s muscles corkscrewed around his knot. Whether it was his unexpected words or the way his body literally milked the orgasm out of the Alpha, Derek was seized by the most intense orgasm of his life. He hunched over Stile’s insensate form and roared his completion._

_Stiles was floating on a cloud of exhaustion and unbridled joy. He belonged here. Pinned under Derek’s heavy chest, sweat mingling with other bodily fluids. He could feel the forceful gush of Derek’s come sluicing his insides, filling him. The knot locked them together and Stiles was almost grateful. He didn’t want to go anywhere. He was too tired to even care about the awkward positon they ended up in._

_It could be minutes or hours later but Stiles could feel when Derek slips his arms carefully underneath Stiles back before he was being rolled onto Derek’s chest. He felt the weight of a blanket as Derek pulled it over both of them but he’s already drifting._

_He nosed the hollow in the center of Derek’s chest, inhaling his scent before he lets the drag of sleep pull him under._

_So much hate for the sun._

_So much._

_Stiles contorted his face in an attempt to hide from the rude rays making it extremely hard to ignore consciousness. His whole body was heavy like lead and it was too much effort to turn his head away from the bright sunlight, or try to pull the pillow over his eyes._

_The sheets against his cheek were softer than usual, he noticed with a little frown, and they smelled like D—_

_With a sharp inhale, Stiles’ eyes flew open and took in the strange bed he was in. Alone._

_He tried to ignore the sharp ache in his chest. Maybe Derek had just stepped out for a moment. He refused to overreact._

_Stiles struggled to a sitting position, biting his lip hard against his overall stiffness, particularly in his—_

_Okay so that was a mortifying new low for him. He was leaking Derek’s come all over the sheets. Out his ass. Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t have moved. He was awarded with the mental picture of trying to handstand his way out of the loft. Stiles scrubbed his face with his palms. Welp, he supposed that’s what you got for sexing it up without a condom._

_He eyed the distance between the bed and the ensuite bathroom. He was going to have to clench and run._

_His life. Ladies and Gentlemen._

_At least in the bathroom there were signs of life. Someone had left a bundle of clothes on the counter and Stiles did as much of a clean-up as he could without aggravating his extremely unhappy bottom. The rest he flew through with nervous adrenaline._

_Pulling on Derek’s clothes made his stomach flutter strangely. The pants weren’t too bad, he and Derek were about the same height except there was more room in the thigh than he had; the soft worn grey t-shirt that he pulled over his head was a different story. It was like wearing his dad’s shirt when he was like, five. He was lost in it. Stiles winced as the move brought attention to the bite on his shoulder. His fingers prodded at the broken flesh, the evidence pointing to human teeth not Were. He wasn’t worried. He doesn’t remember Derek wolfing out at any point last night, despite some of his rather primal actions. Just the red eyes._

_Stiles shivered in arousal at the memory. So that was a thing (who’s he kidding that had always been a thing)._

_He gathered his metaphorical balls and opened the door to the bathroom. Still no Derek but there was the faint smell of coffee drifting from downstairs. He relaxed a little._

_He found Derek in the kitchen. There was a mug of coffee held out to him and he made a sound of thanks as he accepted._

_“I don’t have much for breakfast,” Derek said as way of apology, “We weren’t back long enough for groceries.”_

_Stiles took a sip of his coffee and even though it was lacking milk it was more than welcome. It was coffee. ‘Nuff said._

_“Coffee has been an official breakfast food for most of my life,” Stiles offered, “thanks.”_

_“There’s oatmeal.”_

_“This is good.”_

_There was awkward silence until Derek gestured at Stiles forehead, “How’s your head?”_

_Something about this whole thing was starting to make Stiles uneasy. His spider senses were tingling._

_Self-consciously Stiles reached up to touch the bandage on his forehead. He’d nearly forgotten about it. “It’s fine.”_

_Derek nodded._

_Stiles felt tightness in his throat. He knew what this was. He knew Derek’s secret eyebrow language and_ that _particular furrow was ‘Personal space brow #6: How do I tell ____ to get out of my house?’_

_Stiles could honestly say that being in love with Lydia for years had given him some advantages. He knew now when it was time to back away gracefully. Even if he might be hemorrhaging inside._

_He was lucky he’d been running with wolves long enough that he had some control over his heartbeat (not his chemo-signals but he couldn’t have everything apparently). This was going to take some skill._

_“Well I should probably let my dad know that I’m not some kind of freaky Abominable Snowman chimera by now. Thanks for showing up.”_

_Derek’s lips tightened. “I’m going to have to talk to Scott what’s been going on around here. That never should have happened. If Deaton hadn’t called me--”_

_Stiles knew what would have happened. “Yeah.” He also knew talking to Scott wasn’t likely to do him any favors. He couldn’t wait until his ex-best friend told Derek another person he slept with was a murderer.  This day couldn’t get any better._

_He had to know before he walked out the door. Stiles kept his breathing calm and his heartbeat steady. “Derek, about last night--” His eyes looked towards the Alpha searchingly._

_Derek nodded, he tried to smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. Stiles could feel his insides going numb like they were dipped in ice. “I wasn’t prepared to lose another pack mate,” Derek explained in a serious voice, “I guess it got away from me. I apologize for taking advantage of you like that.”_

_So that’s all it was then._

_Stiles felt as though the ice was like bullet proof glass and with those words there was a huge deep crack that split in two; and both pieces were equally shattered._

_Somehow, thankfully, the devastation wasn’t reflected on his face._

_Stiles smiled. “Nah, it was hot. Can’t regret that.” And he wouldn’t regret it. Not even if it was a mistake on Derek’s part. For the first time in a long time Stiles had felt safe. Felt wanted. He’d hold onto that memory while everything else turned to shit around him._

_There was a surprised uplift to Derek’s lips. He wasn’t expecting Stiles answer._

_He needed to leave. Now. He didn’t want to break down in front of Derek and he would only be able to fake this lying liarson smile for so long._

_“Okay big guy, see you round.”_

_Stiles was very careful not to hurry on his way out of the loft. Every step further from Derek was agony but there was nothing left to go back for._

_His jeep was outside. He thanked all the gods and angels for that. Derek had driven them back in it last night. By the time Stiles fit his key into the ignition his hands were shaking almost too hard. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Derek’s leather jacket hanging off the back of the passenger seat. He couldn’t give it back, he had to get out of range of the loft. He had to hold it together._

_Just a little longer._

_He couldn’t remember how he got to his house. Thankfully (not surprisingly) the cruiser was nowhere to be seen. His legs were jelly as he staggered up to the house. Stiles sobbed for breath, tears streaming down his face as he fumbled with the deadbolt of the door._

_Then he was in his bedroom._

_He didn’t even have the energy to make it to his bed. He slid down the wall and wrapped his arms around his knees. Then he listed to the side. He landed on his shoulder, his head bouncing off the carpet. He blinked at his side-ways room in numb betrayal._

_He bitterly wished the Dread Doctors had killed him. The thought startled a bark of caustic laughter from his lips. Derek’s neat stitch-work would have been for nothing. He pressed his fists to his mouth as though he could push back the sound. He choked back the sobs._

_It didn’t matter anyway. There was no one left to hear him._

When he surfaced from the memory, Stiles was heaving with great big sobs. It hurt to breathe. His face was wet with tears and snot and sweat. Fucking attractive.

His surroundings were different, he noted distantly. He was staggering along uncaring. It was a wonder he hadn’t been hit by a car or picked up by the police. He had to look suspect.

Probably had to do with his spark, he realized numbly.

Stiles lifted his eyes enough to see he was in some kind of park. He was coming up on a bridge. Without any other destination in mind, Stiles didn’t change course. What was the point? He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

In fact—

What was the point?

Why was he running? Why bother? He was poison. Darkness followed him everywhere. He hurt the people he loved; the people who were supposed to love him . . . didn’t. Everything he worked for was gone.

He didn’t want to live like this. He didn’t want to remember every second of every day how he was never enough. He didn’t want to remember having everything he’d ever wanted taken away in the cruelest twist of fate ever.

His own father didn’t want him. Couldn’t even look him in the eye’s anymore. Stiles could remember every little comment that his dad had made that he didn’t trust him.

_“Trust you?” John said in disbelief._

_“Trust Scott?” Stiles asked hopefully, gesturing over his shoulder at his puppy-faced friend._

_“Scott I trust,” John confirmed._

Not to mention how it wasn’t so much a suspicion as much as it was a confirmed fact that his dad wished Scott and all his inherent goodness was his son instead of Stiles,

_“Well, you know someone your age should be happy you still have hair to cut,” Stiles teased his father as he prepared for his date._

_“I think you look great,” Scott threw in supportively._

_“Well thank you, son I should have had,” John said warmly._

Maybe his dad hadn’t thought the little comments meant anything, but Stiles remembered every single one. They were invisible scars littering his body. He’d never begrudged Scott, how could he? He knew how much of a fuck-up he was in comparison. He’d just considered himself lucky to have his best friend. That is, until he didn’t.

_“You think I had a choice?” Stiles demanded, his face twisting in disbelief._

_As always, Scott answered with Deaton-esque levity, “There’s always a choice.”_

_Feeling betrayed, Stiles responded, “Yeah, well I can’t do what you can Scott. I know you wouldn’t have done it. You probably would have just figured something out right?”_

_Scott answered with a maddening, “I try.”_

Stiles remembered being frantic the more he felt Scott slipping away from him,

_“Scott, say you believe me. Say it. Say you believe me,” he begged._

_“Stiles, we can’t kill people that we’re trying to save.” Scott said._

_Stiles had to try one more time but he was feeling the cracks yawning underneath his feet, “Say you believe me.”_

_“We can’t kill people! Do you believe that?” Scott yelled at him._

_And that. That was it._

_Stiles didn’t know what to do for the first time in his life. He was cut adrift._

He had reached the middle of the bridge. It was just a foot bridge but it spanned a wide, rapidly flowing river. He didn’t think it was the Mississippi but he had no idea where he was. It could possibly be a tributary. It didn’t really matter.

Stiles slung his backpack to the ground and began emptying his pockets. The tremor in his fingers was making his cellphone quake as he considered it for a moment. He could send a message—

A tear dripped from the end of his nose. The words had all been said. It wouldn’t change anything. He tucked the phone into a side pocket along with his fake id.

As he took a step away from his backpack, his final connection to Beacon Hills, Stiles turned and eyed the railing. It was high enough to dissuade most reckless bridge jumpers but none of them had been Stiles. He had way too much experience sneaking in/onto places he wasn’t supposed to be. This was a breeze.

Holding onto the beam above his head, Stiles eyed the dark water passing below. He hoped it was deep enough.

He took a deep breath—

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” A voice shouted at him.

Stiles flailed and lost his hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OU my brain


	7. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holiday Weekend Everybody! Here's my gift to you all!  
> Beta'ed as always by the illustrious and awe-inspiring Desmen (yay I'm so happy I didn't have many booboo's to crush my soul this time!! I feel edumacated)
> 
> Song to read by: Best I Ever Had - State of Shock (I so hear Derek when I listen to this song)
> 
> Triggers - If you has dem please be careful, there are references to past non-con in this chapter. Please heed the tags. Kisses!

It took a sickening moment to realize that he wasn’t getting any closer to the rushing water below. Stiles let out a sound that suspiciously echoed a dying cow. “OH my god,” he gulped. The bisque he’d eaten hours earlier threatened to make a reappearance, but through sheer will Stiles kept it down. Which was hard to do when he was mostly pointing in the direction the soup wanted to exit.

How was he not falling to his death?

His arms were waving around his head freely, instinctively searching for something to grasp onto.

He discovered a tight band winched around his hips and slapped at the offending prison in shocked confusion, “What--?”

“God, for someone who . . . looks like he’s fifty . . .  pounds soaking . . . wet—!!” came a breathless voice from behind him.

Someone was trying to haul him to safety.

Staring down at the yawning maw of water, he suddenly couldn’t be more grateful.

“A little help here?” The voice strained.

Stiles dragged his eyes away from the water reluctantly and saw that he was closer to the railing than he thought. He reached for it with shaking hands. “Don’t let go,” he pleaded.

Just as he spoke, the arm slipped around his hips. Gravity and his not-so-meager 140 pounds conspired against them. Stiles’ finger tips grazed the steel railing but he couldn’t get a good grip. He was just out of reach. He made a desperate, frustrated sound and stretched his body; reaching with his spark.

 _*COME HERE*_ Stiles willed the metal to his fingers.

His sweaty fingertips slipped at first contact but then he found purchase and gripped the beam white knuckled. “Okay,” Stiles gasped out, “okay.”

“Pull!” The girl from the bar ordered him. Her determined blue eyes met his for a second and he felt a trickle of borrowed strength. He pressed his lips together and pulled with all his might. He was never going to make fun of Scott’s showy pull-ups again. (Well, he wasn’t—let’s not think about the reasons right now)

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

His weight seemed expounded by his despair, his heartbreak; it was like all those feelings gained substance and they were determined to drag him down into the inky darkness below. A few minutes ago he’d been all too complacent in his self-destruction. The surprise rescue attempt made his self-preservation instincts kick in and Stiles found himself helping the bartender from earlier drag his shaking body over the ledge. 

They collapsed in a sweaty heap on the other side, gasping and heaving for breath.

“Oh god that was close,” the girl wheezed on her hands and knees, “thank you Tae Bo.”

Stiles dropped his head back against a rusty pillar and tried to catch his breath. He felt like he was edging towards another panic attack. His lungs felt like they were bellowing but the air wasn’t getting anywhere helpful.  He pressed his hand to his chest, trying to ease the crushing pressure within.

The girl with the black hair crawled over to him, “Hey, no. You’re not going to freak out on me after that--!”

He couldn’t help the sputtering laugh, his face wet with tears.

“No, c’mon,” She cajoled him, snapping her fingers in front of his eyes, “Hey. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

_Safe?_

Stiles tried to get a good look at his rescuer in spite of his wooziness. She was crouching in front of him, her surprisingly intense eyes zeroed in on his face. She was still dressed in the jeans and tank top he’d seen her wearing at the bar, her tattoos on full display. Those slender arms, admittedly well defined, had pulled him back from the brink of death.

Holy shit. He’d almost bit it. The realization seemed to hit him sideways all of a sudden, the numb disregard he’d been floating in vanished with a sobering lurch. He’d almost made some wandering alligator a nice midnight snack. Fuck. Stiles swallowed jerkily. That wasn’t as funny as it sounded in his head.

“Why?” he choked out, still unable to draw a full breath.

He didn’t look away, wanting to see any flicker of deceit as he posed his question. What he saw surprised him. There was a determined set to her jaw, and a fierce protectiveness flashing in her eyes.

“Because you didn’t deserve what happened tonight,” she answered him, a tad grimly, “and I wasn’t going to let you do anything stupid while influenced by a roofie.”

“You don’t even know me,” Stiles argued.

Her red lips pursed. “I don’t,” she agreed, “and you don’t have to believe me but I’m going to tell you something I usually keep pretty damn secret.” She held out her hand, palm up. “I’m sort of like you—not a Spark—but I knew you needed help.”

He remained still for a moment, examining her; letting her words sink in. He couldn’t quite bring himself to trust her, not after everything that had happened, but when he reached for his spark he found his power tentative, seeking. It was enough, in his exhausted mental state, to relax his defenses.

Stiles placed his hand in hers.

She hauled him up and onto his feet, drawing his arm over her shoulders so she could take his weight. He was grateful for the foresight when he found himself too disoriented and shaky to walk on his own.

“My car isn’t too far from here,” she huffed as they staggered through the park.

“S’rry--” Stiles slurred.

She made a sound like, “Pssh.”

Any other time he would’ve been mortified to have a stranger to see him so wrecked and vulnerable but he was too far gone, his fatigue deep set within his bones.

He barely noticed when they reached a small dimly-lit parking lot. She propped him up against the passenger side while she unlocked her car. The only detail he had the clarity left to notice was that it was a vintage model and it was dark green. Stiles dropped into the bucket seat with loose limbs and a long groan. He blinked owlishly as the girl dropped his backpack between his legs and shut the door. He’d totally forgotten all about that. Jeezus. All his crap…

His consciousness was wavering as his forehead smeared along the window. His last thought was if he was going off who knows where with a complete stranger who had unknown powers, at least she was considerate.

Everything went black.

 

Lydia sat up abruptly in bed, eyes wide.

“Stiles!” She cried out sharply. She clawed at her sheets in attempt to throw them off, feeling trapped. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and stood up, trembling in her nightshirt.

 _What_ was _that?_ She tried to calm her racing heart. It wasn’t a Banshee scream, thankfully. But she couldn’t help but feel it was more than a nightmare. Her body was thrumming with tension. As though her connection was warning her that her friend was in danger.

She dragged her hands through her tousled hair in frustration. They still had no leads on Stiles whereabouts. How could she even begin to help him?

Lydia paced the length of her luxurious King-sized bed. She couldn’t blame him for needing to leave Beacon Hills but to cut all his ties, even to her; she had to admit she was hurt. She had come to love Stiles—not like he had dreamed of as a sophomore so long ago, but as a kindred spirit. Not many people could challenge her intelligence like Stiles could. Granted they had their own specialty, both in school and in the Pack, but for whatever reason, they worked well together. Even their brand of snark had an intimidation factor that brought her fierce joy.

So she both understood, and was frustrated by Stiles’ disappearance. To get out of the hospital to find out that her Pack had fractured so badly that they hadn’t even _noticed_ , barely even cared, that one of their most valuable members had slipped through their fingers was such a bitter disappointment to Lydia that she struggled not to make the same mistake as the others; who twisted accusations back and forth instead of admitting guilt.

She wished that Stiles had hung on until she was recovered enough that they could slap the sense into everyone. Seriously.

The Pack was a delicate balance of personalities and it was skewed out of balance without Stiles. How anyone could ever think it could be anything but, needed a rude wake up call. Lydia pursed her lips. Well, it seemed they were about to get one whether they wanted it or not.

Smoothing the material of the nightshirt over the tops of her thighs, Lydia’s eyes unfocused as she concentrated on her link to Stiles. It was weak and vibrating with _something._ Not death, but close enough to make her vocal cords ache. Ugh.

She sagged, feeling jittery and uneasy. Not good. She didn’t like it.

She had to figure this out. Stiles was in trouble and he needed her, whether he wanted it or not.

In the morning she was going over to the Stilinski house and she was going to see if there was anything new. There was a piece missing to this puzzle and she was going to find it.

 

The kitchen in the Stilinski house had been turned into a base of operations for the search for Stiles. John sat in his chair at the kitchen table with a cup of cold coffee in his hand, reviewing the file open before him. His eyes were unfocused, his thoughts far away.

He was surrounded by boxes of surveillance reports, bank statements, and eyewitness accounts. Out of the hurricane of information that filled the room, there was only a _ghost_ of Stiles. A bare whisper. There was no evidence he could use to point him in the direction of his son. Not a hint. Nothing.

It was Deaton’s opinion that the boy was using his Spark to stay under the radar; it was the reason why they couldn’t get a signal on his cell phone (it just came back that it was pinging off random cell towers across the country—in absolutely no pattern whatsoever).

John thought the vet was underestimating Stiles. Like he himself had for so long. If his son wanted to disappear, he was going to disappear and _no one_ was going to find him. That was Claudia’s stubbornness right there.

He rubbed a finger over his brow tiredly. This was his fault. He’d left Stiles to grow up alone, he’d taken on too much responsibility too young and now it was coming back to bite him in the ass. His keen-eyed son had been able to absorb random information from the get-go. It had seemed amusing or annoying at times when Stiles was younger but that vast knowledge was now being applied against them. Especially all that time spent at the station, or in the patrol car now meant that Stiles knew the ins and outs of law enforcement for good or ill.

God knows he loved his son. Maybe he hadn’t been the best at showing it but he would do everything he could to find him, if just for the opportunity to tell him. He owed him that much.

It was the thought that Stiles was hurting that left John in agony every day. He never meant to drive his only son away. Hell, he never meant to drive the walls up between them in the first place, it just . . . happened.

Well maybe not so much as just happened, as became habit once he started believing Theo’s lies about Stiles and what happened in the library with Donovan. When Scott wholeheartedly backed the fresh-faced newcomer’s word he hadn’t even thought twice.  So it had been hard to look Stiles in the eyes after the truth came to light (if he admitted it to himself, he’d been a coward plain and simple). He felt so goddamn _guilty_ for not believing in his son.

Theo Raeken. If Derek hadn’t already taken care of the evil little—

John clenched his jaw tight. They had all played right into the Chimera’s hands, but it seemed only Stiles was suffering for it.

The front door creaked. John sat straighter in his chair, unwilling to hope . . .

No, that was the distinct sound of heels coming closer to the kitchen. He sank back into his chair with a silent sigh of disappointment. It was always the same each time one of the pack stopped by. He always hoped to hear the fumbling gait of his son tripping through the entryway. It never was.

“Mr. Stilinski?” Lydia called.

“In here.”

Lydia appeared around the corner, her lips pursed in a tight smile. “Good morning. Can I get you a fresh coffee?”

John knew better than to argue. Especially when he saw the pale violet under her hazel eyes that even her skillful makeup couldn’t conceal. He surrendered his cup and allowed the young woman to take command of his coffee machine, putting a fresh pot on to brew.

“Any updates?” Lydia questioned him while she waited for the coffee.

He appreciated her straightforward manner. Lydia didn’t beat around the bush. Even when he’d rather hide behind his stack of useless data and sink in misery, she prompted him to pull his head out of his ass. It wasn’t always pleasant, but it was necessary.

In response to her question, he shook his head, a downward turn to his lips. “No. Derek said the trail was too old. He couldn’t find anything.”

Lydia frowned. She knew it had been a thin hope that one of the werewolves would be able to pick up a trail from SoCal but she couldn’t say that it was surprising that it was a dead end. Too much time had passed and it was a big city. Stiles had known what he was doing.

“He’s probably still upstairs, if you want to talk to him.” John added. He huffed, “Thinks I don’t know he goes into Stiles’ room.” He sighed. There was so much he could say about _why_ Derek Hale thought he had the need to linger in Stiles’ room but what would it matter now?  They were all feeling his son’s loss in their own ways.

Lydia pursed her lips in an approximation of a smile. It looked more like a grimace.

 _Points for trying._ John wanted to snort at his very Stiles-like thought.

She passed him back a new cup of coffee, cream no sugar just the way Stiles used to insist on making it for him. John felt his throat tighten as he nodded his gratitude. She made herself one, and with only a slight pause, a cup for Derek.

 

The door to Stiles’ bedroom was open a crack so Lydia carefully shouldered it open to announce her presence. She wasn’t sure if Derek would be there when she entered but he was sitting on the end of the bed when she walked in.

“Derek.”

“Lydia.”

Pleasantries and coffees exchanged, Lydia perched on Stiles’ desk chair expectantly, her legs crossed primly.

Derek sighed. He looked tired. In fact he looked like he could use a shower and an electric shaver. The facial hair was getting a little out of hand. A little more and she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between his human, and his beta form, she thought dryly.

“You heard the Sheriff,” he spoke reluctantly. “We didn’t find anything.”

Lydia nodded her head sharply. “I heard,” she affirmed. She paused to take a sip of her coffee, “It’s not why I want to talk to you though. Last night I woke up calling Stiles’ name.”

That got his attention. Derek’s head snapped up and the green of his eyes zeroed in on her. She repressed the shiver at the penetrating predatory gaze.

“What.” There was no inflection but she could sense the turmoil boiling to the surface.

“Not a scream,” she clarified, not able to help the way her pulse quickened slightly in response, “but I think he’s in danger.”

Derek got to his feet and began to pace. “You didn’t tell the Sheriff. Why are you telling me?” He turned on her suddenly, his eyes wild and bleeding red.

“Because I need to know all the reasons why Stiles left,” Lydia stated calmly, “and you’re hiding something.”

Derek’s shoulders sagged and he turned away. “Lydia--” he said warningly.

“If Stiles is in danger,” Lydia swallowed, the coffee bitter in her mouth, “or suicidal. I need to know all the things that drove him away from his pack.”

Derek leaned against the frame of the window, her words hitting him harder than he wanted. He accepted the wisdom in her suggestion, but it was hard to get past the shame and regret of what he’d done.

“We slept together, the night I killed Theo,” Derek revealed in a rough voice. “It was a mistake, a one-time thing. Emotions were running high that night and it just happened.” He didn’t mention how much he wanted what happened, or how that night had meant more than he’d ever dreamed possible. His wolf instincts bristled at his obstinate decision to deny himself what he wanted.

Lydia was staring at him with wide eyes. He felt uncomfortable as a moment of silence fell between them as she acknowledged his words.

Her voice, when she finally replied, was soft, “Did you say that? To him? That it was a mistake?” She sounded breathless.

Derek didn’t want to answer her, he knew whatever he said would be bad. He’d been feeling _wrong_ ever since that moment. “I told him that I didn’t want to lose another pack mate, and that I was sorry to take advantage.” He wanted to squirm, uncomfortable with the way Lydia was staring at him.

“Derek,” Lydia exhaled, gutted. “Was that really how you felt?”

He looked away from her. “He’s my anchor,” he answered instead.

“But you—” Lydia blinked. Puzzle pieces falling together. “Oh, no.”

Derek glanced back at her exhalation, his brows furrowed.

Lydia clasped her fingers tightly together in her lap, her throat aching with a phantom cry. She inhaled shakily. “We’ve got to get him back.” She looked at Derek and he was surprised to see the earnestness on her face. “Stiles is the backbone of this pack. He’s the soul. We are dead in the water without him. Theo knew it. Why do you think he worked so hard at destroying Stiles’ personal connections? He wanted Stiles for himself.”

Derek couldn’t help the possessive growl that burst out at that statement.

“Derek, we don’t just have to find Stiles, we have to fix the problems with the pack, otherwise he’ll never stay. Scott needs to take personal responsibility for his mistakes, for having Alpha tunnel-vision. John is going to have to figure out how to delegate work and his relationship with his son because right now? There isn’t one. He needs to make Stiles a priority. Malia needs therapy to integrate because she’s still having problems with empathy,”

“And Derek, you’ll have to tell him,” Lydia continued seriously.   

“What?” Derek recoiled.

Lydia pressed her lips together ignoring his reaction, “Derek, Stiles has been in love with you for _years_.”   

Derek laughed harshly, “I think you’re confusing me for you. And he was dating my _cousin_ , Lydia! What happened between us that night was a mistake for more than one reason.”

She looked almost sorry for him. “He was in love with the idea of me, and it hasn’t been like that since Jackson left for London. And Malia . . . I’m going to tell you something no one else knows, not even her, okay? So you can’t breathe a word.” She fingered the blue and grey chiffon of her jumper anxiously.

Derek shook his head in confusion, “What?”     

Lydia took a deep breath, “What happened with Malia and Stiles should never have happened. It started in Eichen House, when Stiles was under the influence of the Nogitsune.”

He had to admit he was confused at her line of thought, “What do you mean?”

She looked at him patiently, “Stiles only met Malia once before. Then he lost his virginity to her in Eichen House.” She paused meaningfully. “While under the influence of the Nogitsune.” Her hazel eyes sharpened. “Stiles would _never_ have taken advantage of someone in a mental facility. Certainly not when he was there for treatment himself. He may have been a horny teenager, but he was _always_ honorable.”

Derek began to shake. He didn’t like where his thoughts were leading. He swallowed loudly. “Are you saying--” He stopped. This was hitting too close to home. He couldn’t say the words.

Lydia took pity on him, “Stiles was a virgin. He was in love with someone. That someone was the Knight on the chessboard. The Nogitsune fed off of chaos and pain. What could be worse than using Stiles own body to—”

“Stop!” Derek barked harshly. He sat on the edge of the bed heavily, raking his hands through his messy black hair. “Fuck. Then why did he continue to see Malia afterwards?” He couldn’t help asking.

“Did you miss the part about where I said Stiles was honorable?” Lydia said wryly, the sadness in her eyes belying the fake amusement in her voice. “After losing Allison and Aiden, I guess the guilt made him feel like if he was helping Malia he was evening out the balance somehow.”

 _Stiles,_ Derek thought in agony.

He clenched his fists as he remembered the way Stiles had choked out, _“I love you. S’much.”_

“I made him leave,” Derek heard himself say, destroyed.

Lydia shook her head, “It was so much more than that. I’m guessing things have been building for a while. It would take nothing less than earth shaking for Stiles to give up the pack.”

Derek closed his eyes tightly. He knew she was right. Stiles had always fought like a demon for an Alpha—and for a pack that treated him like an afterthought. For Stiles to walk away meant that he’d done the unthinkable; he’d given up.

“We have to find him,” he said grimly, his red eyes flashing with conviction.

Lydia smoothed her hands down her jumper crisply, “Well then. I think it’s time I made a call to Danny.”

 

Stiles slowly returned to wakefulness by the slow wet drag of tongue on his face.

His face contorted but he was so tired he could barely muster up the energy to duck his face away from the strange tongue washing he was receiving.

“—ppptth Scott—‘w the fuck--?” Stiles spluttered, “T’d you ‘r morn’ng breath smells l’k dog.”

A snort of laughter had Stiles’ eyes fluttering open in shock. That wasn’t Scott. He flailed at the sight of a close-up view of a huge ass dog muzzle in his face. He did not squeak in fright as the bull mastiff leaned its head in closer for another taste.

“Ho—ly shit!” he yelped.

“I see you’ve met Gansey already,” a female voice said in amusement.

Stiles looked over the massive skull of the dog to see the woman from the bar perched on the arm of a comfy looking armchair. His fuzzy memory provided him with some of last night’s events. He swallowed hard. He promptly wished he could forget.

“Uh, hey.” Stiles said uncomfortably.

“My names Ransom,” she introduced herself. She was a little more fresh faced, without make-up and her dark hair was obviously slept on. Stiles couldn’t help feeling a little bit more at ease around her.

“So, last night really happened?” Stiles heard himself say before he could stop himself.

“Yeah, it did.” She said, a hint of sympathy in her voice. “I had no idea how that drug would affect you. So I followed you from the bar. It’s a good thing I did. There are better places to go for a midnight swim.” Her eyes were searching.

Stiles looked away. “Right.” He didn’t dare say anything else.

“You hungry?”

He thought about it. His stomach seemed settled enough. “I could eat,” he said cautiously.

“Good!” She slapped her thighs. “The bar is right next to a café that serves the _best_ beignets. I had some left over from yesterday.”

Bemused, Stiles followed her through what appeared to be the hallway in an older home towards the back to the kitchen. There she had a little café table with two stools. He pulled out one and sat down while she quickly put together their breakfast. The kitchen was small but up to date with newer chrome appliances. The walls were painted a dark distressed blue and the drapes accenting the long windows were gold silk.

She caught him staring at the curtains with a skeptical expression. “I don’t do a lot of cooking in here,” she admitted. “I’m a take-out queen.”

Embarrassed at getting caught, Stiles refocused his attention on his plate.

“I do however love my expresso machine,” She cooed, caressing the gleaming machine. She swiftly made them both a latte and joined him at the table.

“Thank you,” Stiles found his voice.

She shrugged, “It’s nice to have company. And Gansey likes you.”

The dog in question was sitting at Stiles feet staring up at him with liquid adoration.

“I think he just wants my breakfast,” Stiles replied dubiously.

“M’bee,” Ransom snickered around her mouthful, snorting icing sugar as she did.

Stiles found his lips curving upwards at her antics. He brought the latte to his lips and took a small sip.

As soon as the rich flavor of coffee and steamed milk hit his tongue, Stiles found his stomach crawling up the back of his throat with a vengeance. He stumbled from table choking out, “Bathroom--”

“In the hall,” Ransom told him, her eyes wide.

Stiles barely made it. He dropped to his knees over the toilet as the dubious contents of his stomach made a forceful reappearance. He groaned between heaves, sweat collecting along his hairline.

He felt a cool cloth pass over the back of his neck and then his sweaty forehead. He reached up shakily to flush the toilet.

“Are you okay?” She asked him in concern. Dropping the cloth in the sink.

He wiped away the tears that had escaped, “Ugh. I’ll be okay in a minute. Food hasn’t agreed with me lately.”

She helped him back out to the living room where he had woken up. He sagged heavily in the corner of the sofa and concentrated on breathing past the nausea. If he didn’t move and focused really hard on getting fresh air into his lungs, he could sometimes get his lurching stomach to settle.

“How long has this been happening?” Ransom asked, in a hushed voice.

Stiles tried to remember when it started. “I dunno. A couple of weeks?”

He could hear her shifting closer. The cushions dipped as she joined him on the sofa.

“I remember your name from your Id,” she said, “but I don’t think I can do it justice--”

 _What?_ Stiles was confused for a moment. _Oh! She wants to know my name!_

“It’s Polish,” he said, “Mieczysław, but everyone calls me Mitch.”

“Well that’s a hell of a lot easier to pronounce,” she said wryly. She adjusted her position on the couch once more. It was almost like she was nervous. Stiles felt the tension begin to tighten in his muscles. He opened his eye a crack to watch her warily.

“Remember how I told you I was sort of like you?” She began.

“Yeah?” Stiles frowned.

“You’re obviously a Spark--”

“How do you know that?” He interrupted her.

“That you’re a Spark? I knew it when I touched your ID. I felt it,” Ransom admitted.

“What are you?” Stiles asked uneasily.

Like she did last night, Ransom held out her hand, palm up as though showing she was no threat. “I’m a Witch.”

Stiles tensed. “A witch?”

She smiled and there was nothing threatening about her expression, “I use my magic to read people’s ‘fortunes’ in a shop I own downtown. I sometimes work shifts at the _Fe_ as a favor for a friend. I promise I’m not here to hurt you.”

Stiles wanted to trust the sincerity of her voice, but he checked in with his spark, which confirmed that Ransom seemed as harmless as she was portraying. At least to _him._ She did have a significant amount of power at her disposal.

“I—believe you,” Stiles said slowly.

She flashed him a grateful smile. “Thank you.” Ransom waited a beat and then said, “Here’s the part that you might have trouble believing . . . I had a dream about you.”

He looked up at her dubiously.

“I know it sounds wonky, but my magic? It’s mostly precognition.” She rolled her eyes and wiggled her fingers. “I _see_ things,” she intoned.

“You have the second sight?” Stiles blurted out. It wasn’t quite in disbelief, because _werewolves_ , but really, what was his life?

“Yup,” she confirmed.

He blinked. “So, what did you . . . see? About me?” His skin began to prickle with the energy of his spark.

Ransom held his gaze for a moment, “I saw that you were running from something.”

Stiles flinched.

She continued before he could get defensive, “but I also saw that you weren’t travelling alone.”

He frowned. “What?”

She held out her hand once more. “Mitch, would you let me show you what I can see?”

His chest was feeling tight. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see. The first thing that came to mind when she mentioned he wasn’t travelling alone, was the Nogitsune, and _that_ made him want to curl up in a ball of mindless panic.

“Shh,” she hushed him. He realized he was making a high-pitched whine of distress and closed his mouth abruptly against the noise. “I promise you it isn’t anything negative.”

Not quite reassured, but needing to know for a fact that it _wasn’t_ the dark fox spirit of his nightmares, Stiles placed his hand in hers.

Ransom gently entwined his fingers with hers and guided him to close his eyes, encouraged him to see with his spark instead. She placed his hand on his belly where the hard lump pushed back under the waistline of his jeans. Even with his eyes closed, Stiles frowned. How had she known about that?

“You need to look inwards,” Her voice directed him. He let a little of the calm in her voice flow over him and settle his racing pulse. He opened his eyes within and found himself transfixed by the red and orange glow of a tiny hummingbird heartbeat.

“What is that?” Stiles asked breathlessly.

“That’s your baby,” Ransom said softly.


	8. The Queen's Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for all your comments! Seriously, they keep me motivated to keep writing. I know I'm not the swiftest writer in the universe but I love this story. 
> 
> Trigger Warning: this chapter has some body dysmorphia so be safe if that is the kind of thing that upsets you. Also, please refer to the other trigger warnings in the tags. 
> 
> The angst isn't over with people. 
> 
> Song to read by: Right Here by Ashes Remain

His first reaction was,

_Thank **fuck** it’s not the Nogitsune._

Then Ransom’s words had a chance to sink in and Stiles’ hands began shaking. In any other normal situation he would have burst out laughing, shot finger-guns at her and said, “Riiight!!”

But werewolves.

(This basis for comparison was beginning to seriously suck fucking BALLS—okay?)

“What?” He heard himself say instead. He sounded like someone had just sucker punched him.

Ransom pulled her hands back slowly, not wanting to alarm him. She didn’t say anything more, giving the news a chance to sink in.

It didn’t make sense. But.

Stiles couldn’t help thinking of all the times he’d been sick in the past few weeks, kind of like—morning sickness _._ He paled. _The c-cramping, was that--?_ Stiles covered his eyes with a shaking hand. What? Was his body suddenly growing a uterus or something? Fuck, even his _nipples_ had been driving him up the fucking wall--! He thought the symptoms were all synonymous with panic attacks.

“I’m not,” Stiles tried, swallowing dryly. His spark never lied. He could hear the futility of his words, even as he clung to his denial. “It’s not possible,” he settled on.

Even though there was sympathy in her eyes, Ransom was firm. “I’ve never heard of it happening before, but I can sense your baby with my powers. More, when you lend yours to mine.”

Those words, _your baby_. Did. Not. Compute.

Stiles lifted his eyes. “I can’t be though,” his voice broke. “This isn’t happening.” He closed his eyes tightly. He wished when he opened them he would still find himself in his bedroom in Beacon Hills and this would just be a sick nightmare. “I’m still drugged, right? M’just tripping balls.”

“Oh honey,” Ransom sighed, “C’mon. You can lay down on the couch again, Gansey won’t mind.” These words made no sense to Stiles so he paid no attention to them. Ransom grabbed a throw seemingly out of thin air and threw it over his glassy-eyed form.

Satisfied he was cocooned to her specifications, Ransom knelt down on the floor by his head. “I’m going to go make us some tea. You need a moment before you break your brain.” Her lips quirked, “I admit, this may call for a shot of whiskey—in my tea, not yours. Sorry.  Then when I get back we’re going to put our big girl panties on and figure out what to do next. Okay?”

He was startled by the involuntary snort that burst out at her comment. “Might as well.” He wasn’t surprised by the bitterness underlying his words. “Next on American Horror Show: Stilinski; I’ll be growing a vagina.”

Ransom’s voice drifted down the hall, “Multiple ooorgaasms!!” she sang.

It was only vaguely humorous for a second and then his overwrought brain wondered if that was a thing that could happen and his breathing hitched. He palmed himself instinctively, relieved to find his dick still where he left it. “Oh thank god,” Stiles breathed.

Well, weirder things had happened.

To him, specifically.

Stiles groaned. He mushed his face into the couch cushion. A baby. . .

His new witchy buddy returned while Stiles’ brain continued in a frantic loop. She put two teacups down on the table next to the couch and then threatened to sit on Stiles’ head if he didn’t sit up voluntarily.

Feeling a million years old and carrying a metric shit ton of weight on his shoulders, Stiles forced himself into a sitting position. He really wanted to pull the blanket over his head.

Ransom handed him his tea when she was certain he wasn’t going to spill it on himself. Then she settled back into the cushions with a thoughtful crease on her forehead. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now,” she started solemnly.

Stiles stared down at the steeping tea bag. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He was feeling too much, overloaded.

“Whatever your plans were before, I’d like you to consider staying here for a bit,” Ransom offered, not giving him a chance to interrupt, “I have a spare bedroom at the front of the house that I never use and I’d love to have the company.”

Stiles blinked in astonishment. “Why on earth would you want a strange guy . . . a strange _pregnant_ guy bumming off you?”

“I like you,” she blurted. Her gaze darting up at his startled squeak. “Oh no, not like that!” She grinned with a mouth full of teeth, “I like my men a little more _les Cadiens_ , if you know what I mean.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned. “Do they know this? Should I give them a heads up? That was a very man-eaterish smile you know. There’s a bro-code--”

She shoved his shoulder playfully, careful not to spill his tea. She seemed pleased to have him joking with her.

“So, how did this happen?” Ransom segued.

Obviously she meant the lump under his bellybutton. He refused to think of it as anything else.

His stomach soured with anxiety. Stiles took a sip of his tea in an attempt to avoid answering. He knew he didn’t _have_ to tell her anything. She was basically a stranger; but he’d been alone for so long it was almost a relief to talk to someone.

“I would say your guess is as good as mine,” Stiles said reluctantly, “but I’d be lying. If my life was going to crap on me in a spectacular fashion, it would have been on June 27th.”

She could tell that talking about it was taking a toll so hesitated to interrupt.

The breath shuddered out of Stiles’ mouth and he knuckled at his wet eyes. “Fuck,” he exhaled shakily.

“That means--” Ransom visibly looked to be calculating under her breath.

“Eight weeks,” Stiles supplied weakly. Two months since he and Derek . . .

Her eyes were wide as they turned on him. “Mitch--” she breathed.

He flinched.

Ransom caught the motion. “That’s not your real name is it?” She said softly.

Stiles dropped his head on the back of the couch with a groan.

“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone,” she reassured him, “I knew your ID was fishy but lots of transients don’t use their real names.”

Transient. Huh, that’s the first time anyone called him that. He wasn’t prepared for how it made him feel. Like he was even more unmoored. His loneliness flared like a sharp pain in his chest.

“It’s Stiles. Stiles Stilinski,” he admitted heavily.

“Like the American Horror Show,” Ransom said.

“Huh?” Stiles lifted his head, then realized. He’d inadvertently given himself away earlier. “Yeah. Apparently I’m more freak show than an international spy.”

Her lips turned downwards, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have a lot on your mind.”

She squirmed in her seat for a moment, “So is Stiles some kind of abbreviation of Stilinski? Doesn’t that just mean you’re saying Stilinski Stilinski?”

Stiles blinked at her for a moment. “Firstly, why are you the first one to get that? Secondly, my real first name is only uttered on one foot with a split tongue and spinning backwards so no I’m not telling you. And third: Ransom.”

She sniffed, “It’s like Prince. Only without the weird hieroglyphics. Or the awful facial hair.”

Stiles gave her a wan smile and held out his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

Her blue eyes twinkled, “I can tell we’re going to get along _fabu_ lously.”

Then the mood got serious once more.

“Aaand just before we got off on a tangent,” Ransom started, “I was about to say, you should see a doctor.”

Stiles’ whole body went rigid.

“A supernatural doctor--!” She hurried to pacify him.

“No!” He burst out. Immediately his imagination supplied him with how a doctor’s appointment would go,

_“Ok, Mr. Stilinksi, could you turn your head and cough?”_

_“Aheh--!”_

_“Were you aware that you were pregnant with a werewolf baby?”_

_“Uh—”_

_“That’s perfectly fine. We have the perfect solution. We’ll just cut you in half with this sword. Everyone will be much better off.”_

Stiles broke out in a cold sweat. He did not just picture his imaginary doctor as Gerard Argent. That was an image he needed to not have.

“I have plenty of contacts because of my shop,” Ransom explained. “There’s a midwife--”

God, even the word midwife gave Stiles the heebie jeebies.

“Please,” Stiles managed. “Please don’t tell anyone. No one can know.”

Ransom examined him closely. “Okay,” she said finally. “I won’t say anything. But if you change your mind just say the word.”

“Can I take you up on your offer of a room? I think I need to _really_ lay down.” Stiles said feelingly.

Her smile widened in pleasure. “Absolutely! It’s just across the hall. Here--” she took his arm as he rose to his feet, still a little wobbly. She led him to the room which was indeed at the other corner at the front of the house.

Stiles was prepared to take a cursory look and face plant in whatever bed was within reach but found himself pausing on the threshold.

“This is your spare room?” he goggled.

Ransom scrunched up her face. It wasn’t adorable, shut up. “Sorry. This is where my overflow books end up.”

Stiles mouthed the words _overflow books_ , as he looked at the walls covered in book-laden shelves. This wasn’t a spare room it was a fricken library.

He must have spoken out loud. She looked ashamed, “My library is next to my room at the other end of the house.”

He turned his stunned face on her, “I’m never leaving.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she beamed.

There was a single bed underneath one of the tall windows on the opposite wall; it had a cozy looking grey duvet on it which, as Stiles allowed himself to be pushed horizontal, realized must be filled with goose down. It was a ridiculous juxtaposition of heaviness and cloud-like fluffiness. He might have sighed in bliss (no judgement, he’d spent a long time sleeping upright, or on creepy motel mattresses).

“No drooling on my duvet,” Ransom said, on her way out the door.

“I don’t drool,” Stiles lied.

He saw the hint of her smile as she closed the door behind her.  

It took a few moments of staring at the backs of books in the quiet of the spare room before the trickle of his thoughts began to filter back in. Stiles closed his eyes.

He was . . .

Stiles closed his hands into fists, resisting the curious temptation to brush his fingers over the lump on his stomach.

Why? Why would this happen _now?_ He was packless. Alone. No one wanted him. Certainly not Derek. Not like _that_.

He didn’t have a future. His past was a nightmare. In the past 24hours alone he’d been roofied, almost raped, and tried to kill himself. Now the persistent intestinal flu he thought he had was really because he was pregnant with his werewolf one night stand’s baby. Now here he was bumming a room in a witch’s house. A witch he’d only known for the whole crazy 24hour period. Who wanted him to stay because . . . well, who knows really. He couldn’t figure it out.

Was life really this cruel?

Stiles turned his face into the pillow to hide his tears even though there was no one there to see them.

Of course he knew the answer.

For Stiles Stilinski, life was living hell.

 

He found himself drawn to the ruins of his old house. Ashes stirred at his feet as he walked through the moldy skeleton of memories. Derek couldn’t remember why he was here. Did someone want to meet up with him? He went to search his pockets but he wasn’t wearing his jacket, and he came up empty-handed when he checked his jeans.

Something at the back of his mind stirred, _Wait,_ _wasn’t the house razed to the ground by the county?_

He was distracted from that thought by a heartbeat coming from somewhere on the property. Derek frowned in concentration. Something about it sounded familiar . . .

_LubdubDUb Lubdub Lubdub LubdubDUb_

Derek froze in disbelief. That was Stiles’ stumbling heartbeat! He’d know that frantic pounding anywhere.

“Stiles?!” Derek barked out. He swiveled his head frantically, trying to zero in on his location. Was he hurt? Why wasn’t he answering? He took a few steps forwards, closer to the central stairway. He lifted his eyes. Up there.

He took the stairs a few at a time, crouching defensively on the landing as he peered both ways down the hall. The sunlight was pouring in at spots where the roof had crumbled away and one renegade sunbeam captured a figure curled up against a weathered door.

“Stiles--?” Derek couldn’t let himself feel relief, not until he was sure. . .

His hand reached for the figure hesitantly, afraid it would fade away at his touch.

Instead, the contact coaxed the hunched over figure to lift his head and Derek felt the air punch from his lungs, “It is you.”

Stiles blinked at him, slowly. His dark lashes were almost golden in the sunlight. He looked dazed.

“Are you okay?” Derek demanded, his hands searching for wounds, “Stiles?”

There was nothing physically wrong with him but Derek was at a loss for why Stiles wasn’t responding. He was worried. He needed to get him to the hospital, or even Deaton.

“Okay, I’m going to get you up,” Derek said determinedly, “We need to get you checked out. There are a lot of people worried about you.” _I was worried about you_ , he thought silently.

Stiles’ seemed to focus on him a little more at his words. There was a deep sadness in the depth of those whiskey eyes; Derek felt that expression pierce somewhere deep. It left him unsettled.

“I can’t leave.” Stiles murmured.

Derek’s frown deepened at his words. “What? Why the hell not?” His growl deepened in timbre.

Stiles’ head started to drop back down to the knees he squeezed tightly in the circle of his arms, “M’not done yet.”

“Not done--?” Derek repeated, uncomprehending.

Stiles voice was fading, “Can’t leave till I’m done, S’r wolf.”

 

Derek jolted awake mid-shout.

Immediately he realized he wasn’t at the house. His red eyes took in his bedroom at the loft; soft edged in the morning light. He swallowed his disappointment.

_Fuck. That was only a dream?_

He speared his hand through his hair, which he found damp with sweat.

Sitting up in bed, Derek draped his arms loosely over his splayed knees. He didn’t know what to make of the dream but even if it was all in his head, he couldn’t deny the need to go visit the old Hale property. Something was itching under his skin, needing to be acknowledged.

His broad shoulders sagged. The dream had felt so real. Stiles had been right _there_. He’d been able to touch him. Derek closed his eyes.

If he went to the site, he knew Stiles wasn’t going to be there. Not for real.

But he had to go anyway.

 

It was too early on a Saturday to be tromping around alone on an abandoned property, Lydia reprimanded herself; or to be more precise, the powers that had so rudely drawn her from slumber. Mentally shrugging she made her way over to the bench that overlooked the Hale Family Memorial. She set down the tray with the two coffees she was carrying and crossed her legs to wait.

It was a tasteful stone, she contemplated. Of course Derek and Cora had some say in the design and they had agreed on something small. It was the garden that had surprised some, an unknown donation by a local gardener. Likely one who had known the Hale family in some way? The landscaped triskele that spun out from the marble monument was understated but stunning.   

Not wanting her caramelized honey latte to get cold she picked up her carton and took a careful sip. She had a guess as to who she was waiting for but not why. Her powers were frustratingly vague at times.

If she could find out a little more about why she had this fragile link to Stiles, and if she could use it to find him before he did something stupid, that would be immensely helpful.

Just as Lydia was getting bored of watching the sleepy bees go from flower to flower, there was the faint sound of tires on loose gravel. She smirked to herself at the confirmation of her intuition.

Derek Hale parked his travesty of a vehicle next to her Prius. Did he not realize the FJ Cruiser was just a beefed up version of Stiles’ Jeep? Surely there was something to be said about subliminal messages.

The scowl-y Alpha approached her.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello Lydia, lovely day. Thank you for the coffee,” Lydia said wryly, handing him the other carton.

Derek eyed the coffee suspiciously.

She shrugged, “I had a feeling.”

He grunted.

Lydia figured that was the closest to a thanks she was going to get. “So what brings you here?”

Derek’s lips thinned. “I had a dream about Stiles,” he said abruptly, “He was in the house.”

She sat back and looked blankly ahead at the clearing where the house used to be. She could hear the words that weren’t being said. He was here to make sure the dream wasn’t real. The shortness of his words attempted to hide his vulnerability. Lydia felt a surge of compassion. The older man was occasionally an idiot but his heart was in the right place.

Also, it couldn’t be a coincidence that his dream and her Banshee _whatever,_ had conspired to have them meet up here.

“I probably don’t have to say it,” Lydia started, “but it probably means something.”

He looked at her skeptically.

“I don’t just randomly show up around Beacon Hills with spare coffees,” Lydia pointed out dryly. “I think it’s some kind of omen.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that,” Derek rumbled uneasily.

“What happened in the dream?”

She ignored his faint growl. It wasn’t aimed at her.

“He said he couldn’t leave the house,” Derek struggled to tell her, “Not until he was done.”

“Done with what?” She asked, mystified.

“I don’t know, he didn’t say,” Derek said frustration in his voice. “It was just a dream, I don’t know why it has me so worked up!”

Lydia tapped a finger against her lips. “I don’t know either but if it means anything we’ll figure it out, okay?”

Derek looked at her out of the corner of his eye, he looked surprised. He dipped his chin in acknowledgement.  “Thanks,” he said grudgingly.

She sipped her coffee blandly, also not big on shows of emotion. She had a Facetime appointment with Danny later but for now she was content to sit in solidarity with her Alpha.


	9. No Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got diverted by my other Stiles fic briefly but I'm back!  
> Once again, heed the tags. Even the ones not listed--use your third eye. Safety first!
> 
> Song to read to: Shattered by Jillea
> 
> Some Chapter specific tags I feel magnanimous enough to list: shameless Fandom references, fictional locations, o/c characters, food porn, character considering options concerning unborn child, uncalled for waste of whipped cream.

“So. Danny.”

That was how the conversation began 7:30 on Saturday morning.

If Danny wasn’t already immune to Lydia’s intimidation methods, he might have had the foresight to feel a little bit of unease at the way his former classmate was levelling him with a no-nonsense stare. In person. In the State of Massachusetts.

As it was, Danny had spent years in her company. Not only that, but his ex-best friend had been her boyfriend for _years_ , and if there was a better way to get to know how Lydia Martin’s mind worked, it was that. So no, he didn’t quail. He stared right back.

They had grown a little closer while they were dating the other half of a twin pair but even then Danny had sensed he wasn’t in on the whole shady side of Beacon Hills ‘story’. It had kept him from committing wholly to Ethan, it was probably what kept him from getting his heart completely broken in the end, but he hadn’t gotten the whole scoop until Stiles filled him in.

So it was no coincidence, he figured. Lydia didn’t just show up unannounced at his dorm room with a case of craft beer hanging from one fist without wanting something. Especially after all the conversations she’d been having with him lately.

“What are you doing here Lydia?” Danny asked her bluntly, glad his pot-head roommate was out for once.

Lydia gave him one of her pursed lipped smiles, “Can’t I come visit a friend?”

“All the way from Beacon Hills?” Danny snorted. “It’s a little suspect.” He should have known redirecting her Facetime conversations from certain missing Sheriff’s son and current BHHS Valedictorian would only last so long. It’s not like Stiles hadn’t warned him of the possibility.

“I came to sign the lease on my apartment. I start school in two weeks anyway,” Lydia shrugged unconcerned. “I’d rather make the arrangements in person.”

“Where are you going to be living?” Danny found himself asking. He figured it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she would travel across the country to set up house. It never hurt to have a friendly face around. Still, his suspicions were alerted.

“Pearl Street, off Mass Ave.,” Lydia replied, “It’s a cute little place.”

She took the opportunity to brush past him and enter the dorm while he was mentally trying to map her location in his head.

“That’s nice and close.” Danny said, quirking his lips, “Expensive.”

Lydia shrugged as if to say, _what do you do expect?_

Suppressing a sigh, Danny closed the door behind her.

“So I’ll have to bug you for advice, seeing as you’ve already been here for a year,” Lydia said, touching a few of his knickknacks absently.

He didn’t mind. There weren’t that many, just a few pictures of his older sisters and their families. A few trophies from Lacrosse, ticket stubs; normal stuff.

She gave him the side eye.

He tucked his hands into his pockets.

“What are you really here for Lydia?” Danny asked her calmly. He didn’t really like to mess around with mind games. Never had.

She smiled, this time it was real. The emotion matched the flicker in her eyes and Danny relaxed a fraction.

“I know we talked before, Danny. About Stiles. I just thought I’d check in and see if you’d heard anything about him.” She began, settling on the edge of his bed expectantly.

Even though he was expecting it, Danny still wished he was elsewhere. Outwardly he made sure he didn’t flinch and give anything away. Lydia knew about his hacking abilities, suspected some of his shady dealings on the side, but they had never outright discussed anything about it. He wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up first.

“Stilinski? What about him? Is he still missing?” He asked with just the right amount of interest.

Lydia sighed. For a second he could see how tired she was and then she blinked and her mask slipped back in place. “Yeah he is. And I’m worried. I was hoping he’d at least contact someone and let us know he was okay but there’s been nothing.”

Danny grabbed the back of his computer chair and swung it around, straddling it. “Maybe he just needed to get away for a bit,” he suggested.

Shaking her head, Lydia dismissed this. “Stiles would never leave his dad. Not without force or . . .” She hesitated.

Frowning, Danny coaxed her to continue, “Or?”

Lydia looked down at her clasped hands, “I think he’s planning on killing himself, Danny.”

“What? Why?” Danny said disbelievingly. That didn’t sound like the loud, brash, sarcastic Stilinski he knew. But. He had to admit he had been surprised when Stiles had approached him with his request to go ghost . . .

It took Lydia a moment to gather her thoughts. “If he just wanted to get away from everything, he could have went to college; he had his pick of a few. He left everything behind. Like he just needed the clothes on his back to get him far enough not to be found but not enough to start over. Stiles is smart, okay? I _know_ him. This--?” Lydia took a shaky breath, “This is Stiles with nothing left to lose.”

Lydia looked up at Danny. “I need your help to find him before he does something.” Her gaze was pleading.

 _Oh shit_ , Danny thought, pinned by her desperate expression. _I hope not._

“Since when do you care so much about Stilinski?” Danny deflected.

She couldn’t hide her wince. “We’ve . . . been through a lot together. He’s always been there for me,” Lydia said in a small voice. “It’s my turn to be there for him.”

Danny forced nonchalance, “Isn’t he 18 now, can’t he chose to decide that for himself?”

Fire lit within her eyes, “He can decide _after_ I make everything right,” Lydia scowled. “If he still wants to be an idiot after the fact I can’t stop him.

Shaking his head wryly at the redhead, Danny crossed his arms over the back of his chair. “So what do you think I can do?”

“We’ve burned all our resources. Is there any way you can go the extra mile and trace his phone somehow?” Lydia asked intently.

Danny read between the lines. Not that she was being very subtle. “You want me to illegally trace his signal.”

He wasn’t going to tell her he could do way more than that. He could trace Stiles’ new bank account. _If_ he chose to, which he seriously had misgivings. It would compromise his work ‘ethic’ (even if Stiles was not only a client, his conscience whispered). He hadn’t kept any of Stiles’ information on record, but he did have an eidetic memory and could recall the details effortlessly. Theoretically it wouldn’t be too difficult to get started. Realistically . . .

“I want you to find him, Danny.” Lydia interrupted his thoughts, deadly serious. “Any way you have to. Money isn’t an option.”

He leaned back slowly. How was he going to manage this mess? Did he uphold his agreement with Stiles? Or help Lydia? He didn’t like the idea of being partially responsible for Stiles harming himself, legal adult or not. Like Lydia, he owed the likeable spaz. 

“Before I make any kind of decision, you’re going to tell me why he felt he needed to take such drastic steps,” Danny sighed, rubbing his fingers over his forehead, already regretting everything. “I’m not helping you find someone who’s in distress only to make a situation worse. Convince me first and then I’ll sleep on it before giving you my decision.”

Lydia stared at him for a moment, reading the determination in his dark eyed gaze. She nodded shortly, “That’s . . . fair.” She gestured at the beer she had brought with her. “Might want to crack one of those, it’s a long story.”

 

It was getting easier to wake up in a strange place. Stiles peered blearily at the dim ceiling as a wren outside his window made for a lovely if early morning wake-up call. He squirmed onto his side with a tired little huff, rubbing crusty sleep from his eyes.

The past week had proven to be grudgingly pleasant. He found himself strangely comfortable around his witchy hostess. Ransom was unpredictable and hilarious, often coaxing him into startled laughter with her attitude. He’d been content to hang around her Shotgun-style house in the French Quarter exploring the amazing collection of magical tomes she had scattered around

(If he’d stumbled across a really extensive study on Kanima behavior and squirrelled it away to read later there was no one around to know any better—or arch judge-y eyebrows).

He’d only managed to go out a handful of times, reluctant to explore New Orleans in light of his unnatural predicament.

Knowing what his ‘sickness’ truly entailed, Stiles felt horribly exposed when he was out. Like there were eyes watching him from the shadows. It didn’t help the general jumpiness and stress that lingered from what happened at the bar. He felt like he was a mixed bag of crazy just waiting to explode. Who could blame him for wanting to avoid that?

Speaking of his sickness . . . Stiles draped an arm over his eyes. What the fresh hell was he going to do? If he could ignore his own panic and physical aversion to what was going on with his body he needed to address what his next step was going to be.

Was he going to try to . . . get rid of it? Stiles felt his chest tighten immediately in response. That was a very visceral _no_ in response to that question. As much as he felt like his body was betraying him and changing in very disturbing ways, he couldn’t stomach the idea of terminating a life that he and Derek created.

He ignored the wetness spilling into the hairs in the crook of his arm.

Maybe he could send the baby to Derek after it was born? Stiles couldn’t stop the bitter snort. Kind of like; here, hope it doesn’t have ADHD for your sake dude but I know you wanted a family. Maybe you can pretend it wasn’t with me and have the happy ending you deserve.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Fuck.

He wasn’t being fair. He knew he wasn’t. Derek didn’t deserve his bitterness. The man had always been there to pull his ass out of the fire, even if at first it had been because he didn’t have any other choice. Just because Stiles wished otherwise, didn’t change the outcome.

So that left him with what, six more months of carrying Derek’s child? Stiles pressed his arm tightly into his face as if he could press the thought right out of his head. How was he going to stay sane with that thought for _six months?_

It was hard enough to live each day knowing he was alone in the world; packless, and fatherless. That he would never see Derek again. Now? Now due to some sick twist of fate, his spark had apparently seized on his ridiculous pining for Derek the night they slept together and created a _baby_.

Belief was a dangerous thing, Stiles decided tiredly. That night everything had felt so _right._ Like he and Derek were long lost puzzle pieces finally fitting together. Even so, he wasn’t sure why his spark had gone the extra mile. He was pretty sure at no point that night had he wished, or even casually thought that it would be a really great idea if he could get man-pregnant.

On the other end of the house Stiles heard signs of life. He dropped his arm with a sigh. Well, if he was going to stick it out for six months he needed to make it worthwhile for Ransom, she was such a champion for letting him stay with her. He needed to find a way to contribute somehow.

Sitting up in the bed with a muffled groan, Stiles looked at the limp hands laying in his lap. What could he offer? Life coaching was seriously out . . .

Before he could consider that thought further there was a shriek of outrage from the kitchen. Stiles bolted to his feet and lunged for the door before he realized what he was doing.

“Gansey you flatulent fucktard get back here!” Ransom shrieked.

There was a thunder of footsteps down the hallway as Stiles threw open the door. As he stuck his head around the corner a four legged beast plowed past with all the force of a 130 pound steamroller.

“Holy shit!” Stiles yelped, jumping back in fright.

“Get him!” Ransom bellowed as she skidded into a wall, “He ate our breakfast, the fucker!!”

“What? Really?”

He wasn’t going to attempt to retrieve the breakfast though. Stiles had seen those teeth. And those jaws. Gansey could have his breakfast if he wanted it that badly.

Following Ransom at a safe distance, Stiles found them in the entrance to the living room. Gansey was shamefully hunched over, the brindle bull mastiff licked his large chops with undeniable finality.

“Goddamn it Gan,” Ransom groaned, sagged against the wall looking at the powdered sugar still on the dog’s muzzle. “I really wanted donuts.”

“Aw donuts, no.” Stiles said sadly.

Ransom beamed a smile at him. “Hawkeye!” She chirped.

Stiles barked a laugh, “Are you kidding? A geek witch? Have I died and gone to heaven?”

“The feeling is mutual,” she winked.

Then he realized what she was wearing for pajamas and he started to chuckle. “Well we don’t have any donuts, what about pie?”

“Huh?” Ransom blinked, bemused. “Pie? For breakfast?” Then she noticed he was looking at her boobs. She looked down self-consciously. Did she have pie on her boobs? How did she get pie on her--? Ohhhh.

Her black sleep shirt had white lettering on it that said, “Idjits,” on it.

She looked back up at Stiles with a wide grin. “Are you sure we can’t get platonically married?”

“I’m not ruling anything out now,” Stiles said wryly. “I think love of mutual fandoms alone would make for great marriage compatibility.”

“Damn skippy!” Ransom agreed. “So, wanna go out for breakfast?”

Stiles’ smile faltered.

“I can show you around my shop after,” she coaxed him. “C’mon. I’ll show you my favorite café. They have the best waffles--!”

“Waffles?” Stiles perked up.

“Oooh yeah, the best waffles ever!” Ransom sighed happily. “C’mon Stiles!”

“Alright.”

If he didn’t sound as reluctant as he felt, he totally blamed it on the waffles.

 

Living with a girl was an adjustment, Stiles mused as they got ready to head out. For instance, his prep for the day took a total of ten minutes. Twenty if he took a shower. He grabbed clothes, did the smell test if they passed the visual test, ran product through his hair if it needed rescue and he was good to go.

Ransom on the other hand took about an hour. Stiles really didn’t want to know what was involved in her morning rituals. Perhaps witches needed to bathe in pure spring water gathered before the full moon--? Did they have to harvest fresh ingredients for their toothpaste? He had no idea. He just knew that his stomach was eating itself from the inside out from hunger by the time she finally reappeared.

“What are you standing there for? Let’s go!” Ransom ushered him towards the front door.

Stiles _awked_ in affront.

 

They didn’t have too far to walk, the Café that Ransom was raving about was on Bourbon St., down the street from her shop and only a few blocks from her house. It was a modest little place, tucked almost out of sight, likely geared towards locals more than tourists in the manner that it didn’t scream kitschy bayou advertising. Stiles just simply followed her through a non-descript looking doorway and found himself in a small but very well kept coffee bar, apparently.

It smelled divine.

Like fresh cinnamon rolls and French roast coffee. Even his queasy stomach couldn’t disagree with him.

Someone looked up from behind the till. “Ransom, where y’at?” The cheerful face greeted her.

“All right! We’ll be out back Mary!” Ransom replied with an answering wave.

Kind of unsure at the conversation he just witnessed but confident that Ransom knew what she was doing, Stiles just kept following his enigmatic housemate.

He found himself walking through the small Café and out a door at the back of the room, it looked like they were going into . . . a basement? A few steps down a dimly lit staircase and out another doorway and he stopped at the top of the landing in surprise.

They were in what looked like an indoor garden. Or a backyard, if backyards could be completely surrounded by the walls of conjoined buildings.  A small handful of small round tables dotted the courtyard, shaded by large well-tended palm trees.

“Huh,” Stiles said, following Ransom to a free table.

There were menus already waiting for them so Stiles eagerly flipped it open and scanned the offerings. He was starving.

When he saw the list he let out an obscene moan, “Oh _OH_ my god. Are you kidding me right now?”

Ransom’s ruby red lips curled upwards in a satisfied smirk.

“There are freaking Krispy Kreme waffles here!” He gaped. “And Waffle Grilled Cheese! What the hell is a Chicken Waffle Slider--?!!” He pressed his fingers to his forehead and blinked dazedly, “I think I’m going to pass out. This is too much. Did I die and go to heaven--?”

“No you goober, you’re in one of New Orleans’ best kept secrets. Mary Beaupre’s Café. She makes the world’s best waffles.”

“Now honey, you’re gonna inflate Mary’s head,” A voice behind Stiles said. He shifted his shoulder back to look up at the lanky dark-skinned man holding a coffee pot. “Don’t let her hear you say none of dat.”

“Hey Henry how’s your course going?” Ransom said, sliding her empty coffee cup closer to the man so he could fill it. Stiles eyed it longingly. Before he could pour Stiles a cup Ransom asked for a Ginger tea and a water for him. Stiles narrowed his eyes at her, pouting.

“Good doll, all A’s this semester,” Henry told her with a proud smile.

“Heeey!” She held up a hand for a high-five. “Gonna make a proper Accountant out of you yet!”

Henry laughed at her. “Y’know what you want to order?”

Stiles was tempted to get something outlandish. Oh, yes he so was. But he had to think of his nausea and his upchuck-y stomach. It wouldn’t be worth coming back up. With one last longing look at the Krispy Kreme version he ordered the Banana’s Foster Waffles.

“Oh yum,” Ransom approved, “I’ll have the Strawberry Cheesecake Waffles, please Henry.”

When Henry had disappeared with their order, Stiles leaned over the table, “So is this where you proposition me and tell me in order to support my waffle habit I’m going to have to be your rent boy?”

Ransom almost snorted coffee out her nose. Coughing to clear her throat she said, “I wasn’t looking for a rent boy, actually. I’d be happier with a zombie assistant. Maybe I could just lace your waffles with cemetery dust.”

Stiles sat back in his chair, making a face, “I’ll pass. I-I don’t do well with possession.” He cracked a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Frowning at the plunge in comfortable atmosphere, Ransom said, “There’s a story there—”

He flicked his tongue out over his lower lip nervously, “Yeah. Not a happy ending.”

 _I don’t get happy endings_ , he thought wearily.

Ransom tapped her finger tips on the surface of the table as she quietly surveyed him from where she sat. “You’ve been through hell,” she guessed.

There was no reason to lie. Not really.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I couldn’t stay anymore.”

She tilted her head. “I get that. I ran away from home when I was sixteen. Our circumstances were probably light-years apart but the need to run is the same.”

Surprised by her admission, Stiles looked up at her. She gave him a quirk of the lips. “It feels like a lifetime ago. I’m twenty now, and I have my own house, my own business. But inside I sometimes still feel like a lost sixteen year old.”

He could sympathize. He wasn’t sure if he would ever feel like he wasn’t the same awkward, buzz-cut sass master he was when the whole werewolf nightmare started. He always got a bit of a jolt when he looked in the mirror and saw someone a little too much like the Nogitsune for his comfort. His eyes were a bit too battle-weary, his skin too pale, his hair too long and wild.

Ransom scratched at the side of her scalp where her head was shaved. It looked like a nervous tick. “You don’t have to answer, but I have to ask,” she began hesitantly. “When I found you on the bridge, was that because of the roofie, or because . . .”

Stiles stared unblinking at the gleaming surface of the table. His voice was raw when he answered, “I wasn’t exactly planning on it. But. I also wasn’t fighting too hard. I was . . . I am tired. Of everything that happens to me. Or because of me.”

He blinked as a hand came into his field of vision, palm up. He looked up briefly to see Ransom’s face, sympathetic but not pitying. That was what made it feel right to lay his hand in her loose but supportive clasp. He let out a breath that seemed to take all the tension from his shoulders.

“I know we didn’t have the greatest introduction,” Ransom said, “but I’d like to be here for you. I think we make pretty great friends.”

Stiles gave her a little smile. “You are pretty awesome.”

She shrugged with a smile. “Well, we ARE about to demolish some serious waffles.”

“Hells yeah!”

Henry had excellent timing and arrived just then with their food.

Stiles needed to rephrase that. It wasn’t just food, it was _resplendent mouth orgasms_. He stared unbelievingly at his plate full of waffles, at the sticky sweet combination of bananas, rum, and brown sugar heaven. He prayed to his stomach alien to be agreeable long enough for him to enjoy his meal since he hadn’t tasted anything so amazing in months. 

“Soogoodyummy!” Ransom spearing her food with gusto.

Stiles just contorted his face in what he hoped was fervent agreement and made vague _omnom_ sounds since his mouth was full of goodness.

“I haven’t had something this good in my mouth since—”

“You made an ass baby?” Ransom jumped in helpfully.

Half-chewed waffle spewed across the table as Stiles burst out in incredulous laughter. _Did she just--?_ He curled over his plate snorting and hooting, wiping away stray tears. He sounded like a crazed hyena.

Ransom couldn’t help her sympathetic giggles at the sight of the young man losing control, she looked conflicted, she wasn’t sure she should look worried or amused. “S-sorry! My mouth moves faster than my brain.”

Wiping his eyes off on his sleeve, still snorting, Stiles waved her off. “Oh god, I needed that. Thank you!” He risked a look at her, “Are you sure there’s no Stilinski in your bloodline?”

“Could be--!” She said around a pulpy red mouthful, “Some of my less Russian Orthodox ancestors may have wandered off--” She wiggled a finger as she guided her fork towards her mouth. “Got lost, ended up riding sidesaddle with your heathen horsemen.” She winked at him to show she was teasing.

Stiles made a ‘meh’ face, “A little culture for their bearskin was likely a good thing,”

She ‘ooohed’ and flicked whipped cream in his face.

 

Breakfast was easily the most enjoyable thing he’d done in weeks. Stiles was feeling pretty content. His belly was full with incredible food (skinny jeans—why Lydia why?!). The nausea was holding off. The weather was only moderately suffocating. Ransom was freaking killing him with her commentary. So of course it couldn’t last.

They were almost to Ransom’s store when they came across two guys coming out of a corner store.

As their eyes met, Ransom dipped her chin in acknowledgement. She and Stiles kept walking, still caught up in their conversation whether or not Marvel would put out a Black Widow movie.

A fission of _something_ buzzed up Stile’s spine, as though he could feel eyes following them. It was close enough to the familiar presence of _werewolf_ that Stiles’ hand ‘casually’ slipped into his pocket for the vial of wolfsbane he carried on him.

“Hey Ransom!” a male voice called.

Ransom paused, flashing an unrecognizable look at Stiles before turning around, “Leo. Hey.”

The two men caught up to them, both looking decidedly punk-ish. The one who called out had a limp turquoise Mohawk, black bomber jacket and ripped jeans. His buddy looked similar, same clothing style but he was shorter, had a darker complexion, and a beard.

“You smell like--” Turquoise-hawk, apparently called Leo, shifted his eyes from Ransom to Stiles curiously.

Inside his pocket, Stiles’ fist tightened. _Smell—? Oh—shitfuckshit!!! Of fucking course I run into werewolves outside of Beacon Hills!_

“Probably smell like waffles,” Ransom snorted, “we had a bit of a food-fight.”

Stiles drew his lip back in a smirk (but it felt more like a sneer— _Goddamn it Stiles—great, just show your teeth why don’t you!_ ) “She won.” He jerked his head towards Ransom.

Leo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I _smell_ wolf.”

Ransom made a questioning noise. “Really? All I smell is Gansey.”

Stiles pursed his lips, “True. Pretty sure he drooled on my Chucks.” He prayed his heartbeat remained steady and unbothered.

“Aw, sorry Mitch!” Ransom turned to Stiles to apologize.

It was the use of his alias that alerted him to the fact that she knew the men before them were werewolves. Stiles felt some of his unease uncoil internally. At least he had backup.

“Naw, no big--!” He brushed her off only to be interrupted.

“The smell is not from your mutt, Witch,” Leo growled. “You are aware that all wolves must ask for permission from our Alpha to stay in the city.”

Ransom’s gaze turned to ice immediately. It looked like she wasn’t afraid to use her shit kicking boots on the were if she got a chance. “Would I happen to _be_ a wolf, I would present myself to your Alpha immediately, **_beta_**.”

Oooh, Stiles had never heard the word said in such a derogatory way. Wow.

Leo was full out snarling now, it was probably lucky for them that his teeth weren’t out. His eyes were starting to bleed gold however.

“I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about your friend.” Leo gestured harshly.

Stiles pointed at himself. “Um, me? What about me?”

“You smell like an Alpha.” Leo accused.

Stiles couldn’t help the painful thump his heart made at those words. _Derek._

The snarling increased as the two wolves heard the betrayal of his heart rate.

“Woah, hey!” Stiles barked, throwing out his arm. “I’m not an Alpha!” For some reason the healed bite mark on his shoulder burned at the aggressive proximity of the other werewolves.

“And he’s not a werewolf!” Ransom threw in angrily. “If you continue to harass my friend I will make a complaint to your Alpha about your threatening behavior!”

Leo’s smile was not pretty. “That’s fine. I’ll be speaking to Tracy about this . . .Mitch.” Here he dragged his suspicious eyes up Stiles slowly, teeth bared. “Expect a summons.”

With that the two punk werewolves spun around and walked away.

When they were safely out of earshot, Stiles said in disbelief, “There’s an Alpha named _Tracy?!_ ” He was trying to ignore his rabbiting heartbeat now that the coast was clear.

Ransom cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. “Come on, we need to get to the shop.”

 

It was a shame the first time he saw Ransom’s cool witchy store was in the midst of a panic attack.

He was dragged in and deposited in a soft chair while Ransom went and locked the door behind them.

“C’mon Stiles, breathe!” Ransom urged, her hands resting comfortingly on his cheeks.

He tried. He really did. But the thought of being caught up in werewolf shit again was just too much. His lungs were paralyzed as he replayed the scene over and over in his head. _You smell like an Alpha._

 _God, why--?!_ He pleaded in the roaring silence.

A stinging slap snapped his head to the side. Stiles blinked uncomprehendingly at a voodoo doll before dragging his head back around and sucking in a breath, “Did you just _slap_ me?!” he whined incredulously.

Ransom’s jaw jutted out, “I’ll do it again!”

Stiles tried to scuttle back out of her reach but, chair. “Not necessary! One slap per panic attack. I’m cool!” He babbled.

“Stiles!!” Ransom cried out, “What’s going on?!”

Draping a hand over his eyes, Stiles wondered once again how this was his life. He gestured vaguely at his torso, “The baby daddy--? Yeah. Werewolf.”

“An Alpha werewolf?” Ransom squeaked.

Stiles just clenched his jaw.

“Aw shiiit.” Ransom sat back on her ass.

Queue sudden onset nausea.

“Bathroom,” he choked out.

There was a mad scramble to a closet sized bathroom at the back of the shop where Stiles dropped to his knees heavily, wincing at the crack his knee made on the tile (that was going to hurt later). He only had time to flip up the lid before his awesome breakfast made a gruesome reappearance.

“Aw, waffles. No.” Ransom said mournfully from the doorway.


	10. Apart Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This month has sucked. So much. Thanks for being patient/impatient and otherwise hanging around to read the story. I'm still plugging away. I just really need a writing cave where I can hide away from the world. 
> 
> Additional tags: Mentioned drug use, panic attacks, pop references, o/c characters
> 
> Song to read by: Counterfeit by Jenn Bostic
> 
> I wanted to add at least one more scene to this Ch but with my Mom visiting it didn't seem likely so I thought I better just post this and hope you'll love me anyway. :)

They were still meeting at the Stilinski house every week for updates on Stiles. Even as the atmosphere increasingly grew more disheartened every week Derek insisted they get together. It was kind of like someone’s idea of a gloomy pack night.

The Sherriff slapped a stack of files down on the kitchen table and gestured at it helplessly. “Nothing.”

Derek raised a brow.

“Nothing on my son in the past two months,” John said heavily. “Just customary reports from the other jurisdictions willing to indulge a fellow officer.” He rubbed his forehead, hiding his eyes from view, “What if—”

He didn’t have to elaborate. At some point, everyone in the room had pictured Stiles in various tragic scenarios.

Scott made a winded sound, “No. I won’t believe it.”

“Lydia would let us know if something happened.” Derek interjected firmly. “She still feels a connection to Stiles, so I’m going to believe that he’s still okay.

The lines of anxiety on the Sheriff’s face seemed to ease a little at Derek’s assurance.

“Was Lydia able to convince Daniel Mahealani to look into tracing Stiles’ phone?” Melissa spoke up worriedly from the kitchen table where she cradled a cup of lukewarm coffee.

“I don’t see what he’s supposed to find that will be any different than the information the county lab cracked,” John said dubiously.

“You don’t know Danny,” Scott said confidently, “If anyone could find Stiles by hacking it would be him.”

Scott, John and Melissa turned their attention to Derek. Even without making an official announcement about Lydia’s switch to his pack, it seemed there was some instinctual acknowledgement that he was Lydia’s spokesperson while she was away.

“Derek, did Lydia say anything?” Melissa pressed the stoic werewolf.

Tipping his head was Derek’s way of saying yes. But his thin lips indicated his unhappiness with what he was about to share. “Lydia managed to convince Danny to look into it, but—” he held up a quelling hand out as the others began to make hopeful noises. “Since Stiles was of legal age and not under coercion when he left Beacon Hills, Danny won’t give Stiles’ information to us.”

“What?!” John barked in disbelief.

Derek felt the same way. He wanted to board the next flight to Massachusetts and _force_ Danny tell him where Stiles was. Lydia had made him promise to leave it with her. He was giving her a month tops before he booked a flight to the other coast.

“He told Lydia that Stiles has apparently not moved from the same city in weeks,” Derek reported, glad that Stiles was apparently alive but at the same time conflicted about the fact that he was possibly finding a new place to settle. Derek’s instincts were absolutely going haywire with the need to bring him home and make sure he was unharmed.

“He’s my son!” John was still reeling with outrage. “I need to know where he is!”

Melissa tried to calm him down, “Even if we knew where Stiles was, John, we still couldn’t force him to come home. Not if he doesn’t want to.”

The words took the wind out of the Sheriffs sails.

Derek wished it was that simple. He had a nagging feeling that there was more to Lydia’s precognition and his nightly dreams about Stiles. Something was at work and whether it was something as simple as a languishing pack bond or a banshee at work, he was unable to say.

“Lydia is still working on convincing Danny,” Derek said gruffly, leaning against the wall. “She won’t give up.” _Neither will I._

“I still don’t understand why he left without saying anything,” Scott said, upset.

Digging his claws into his palms, Derek refrained from responding. Not for the first time he wished he hadn’t left Beacon Hills in the True Alpha’s hands. It seems his trust had been poorly placed and he only had himself to blame. Scott didn’t exactly have the best track record. Derek had to remind himself that he wasn’t blameless in Stiles disappearance and took a slow breath, willing back his claws. He had to keep his head, there were other things he needed to address at this meeting.

“Scott,” Melissa said warningly, “We discussed this.”

The stubborn jut of Scott’s chin didn’t ease completely, “I know I shouldn’t have believed Theo but Stiles could have--”

Melissa, surprisingly, wasn’t having any of her son’s bullshit, “What--been the one to wait until you got over your own bullshit?  Scott you’re eighteen and responsible for a pack now. Grow up.”

Chastened, Scott sat back in his chair. Kira looked like she wanted to shuffle closer to her boyfriend and offer comfort but didn’t dare incur Melissa’s wrath. Not for the first time, Derek imagined the woman would make an impressive werewolf.

The Sheriff clapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder, “We all have to make it up to Stiles,” he allowed with an unhappy grimace.

Before this could turn into a competition of who hurt Stiles the worst, Derek cleared his throat.

Everyone’s gaze turned to him.

“I have an announcement to make,” he said with a calmness that belied his inner turmoil.

“Derek?” John asked searchingly, “Is it about Stiles?”

“No, not directly,” Derek answered vaguely. “I’m sure you all noticed I returned to Beacon Hills an Alpha once more--”

Scott sat up a little straighter. The other Alpha had yet to give them the full story.

“It wasn’t the result of a fight.” Derek informed them, “My Alpha spark returned to me shortly after Mexico.”

Scott made a noise, “After you achieved your full wolf form--”

Nodding shortly in acknowledgement, Derek continued to explain, “When I healed Cora from the mistletoe I didn’t know it at the time but my body just needed time to replenish my Alpha powers.”

“Does that have anything to do with why you returned?” Melissa asked. She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced at the cold brew.

“In part,” Derek admitted. “I was hunting down Kate with the Calaveras and Chris Argent when Deaton got in contact with us. He told us about the Dread Doctors and how Beacon Hills was about to be lost. We returned as soon as we could.”  _That’s when I found Stiles, alone and bleeding in the Dread Doctor’s lab_ , he shuddered with the memory. He never wanted to feel that surge of feral desperation and fury ever again.

“Doesn’t explain why you stayed when it was over,” John pointed out, not unkindly, just curious.

“I have had several opportunities to council with my mother’s claws,” Derek said. He glanced at Scott and saw the clearing understanding in the wide brown eyes. “The Hales have protected Beacon Hills for as long as we’ve lived here. It was long past time to return.”

“So you’re returning out of duty?” John said, his eyebrows raising slightly.

Derek allowed a small smile. It felt bittersweet. “No. I’m _staying_ because it finally feels right.”  

“So how is this going to work with two Alphas?” Kira asked timidly.

Derek looked at Scott, “Well, hopefully with an alliance between our packs.”

“Packs?” Scott said in confusion. As far as he could tell Derek was still alone.

Here goes nothing.

“Granted, it’s small.” Derek began, “My pack currently includes my sister Cora, (here he cleared his throat awkwardly) Chris Argent, Isaac and . . . Lydia.”

Those who had burst out in astonishment at the declaration of Chris Argent being part of Derek Hale’s pack were suddenly silenced at the sound of the absent Banshee’s name.

“What.” Scott stood abruptly to his feet, his chair screeched out from beneath him. A low rumble of challenge issued from his chest. His eyes flashed red.

Derek couldn’t help it. He smirked darkly and felt his eyes burn crimson. “I don’t want to fight you, Scott. I’m not lying about wanting an alliance. However Lydia approached _me_.” He pushed off the wall and with a flick of his fingers, his nails elongated. “But I _will_ fight to keep her.”

“Woah! Back off boys!” Melissa shouted, throwing herself forward, her hands outstretched.

Scott stumbled backwards before he could hurt his mother. His chest heaved as he struggled with the newest development. “But why--?!” He sounded betrayed.

Derek shrugged, “That you will have to ask her yourself.” But he was pretty sure she would inform Scott his actions while she was in a coma were not the ones of an Alpha she wanted to put her trust in. It had very nearly cost her and Stiles their lives. It was another thing all together that Scott hadn’t even _noticed_ the loss of a pack bond. Another indication that the younger Alpha was unprepared for responsibility of running a pack.

As Derek and Scott shifted back the tense atmosphere dropped and everyone warily relaxed back into their seats.

“So will you be staying in your loft?” John asked, running a hand over his exhausted face.

“Only as long as it takes to finish building the house.” Derek answered.

“House?” Scott questioned.

“I’m in the middle of drawing up blueprints for the new Hale house,” Derek said. _With Lydia’s imput_ , he thought with silent irony. “The Preserve still belongs to the Hale family and it’s still the best location for a pack house. We’ll be building a bit further down from the original site.”

“You’ve been busy,” Scott said, a thread of bitterness in his voice.

There was a muffled thump as Melissa clearly kicked her son in the shin under the table. Scott muffled a yelp.

“I for one think it’s a great idea,” Melissa said, her tight lips belying her grim thoughts. “Another pack means there will be extra eyes out while _you_ and the others are in school, Mister. A little gratitude wouldn’t be remiss.”

Scott didn’t meet Derek’s eyes but he muttered an apology.

Huh, maybe Mrs. McCall didn’t need to be a werewolf to be intimidating. Derek was impressed. He’d have to see if he could arrange her presence for pack meetings. Things would go smoother if she could control Scott’s more moronic impulses now that Stiles wasn’t there to jump in (and _god_ , he’d never thought he would wish for a time when that was a thing). He tried to ignore the sharp pang he felt.

Derek wanted to wrap up the meeting. Scott’s sullen face was making him want to punch something. “I do have one question I meant to ask,” he began, “I know that during the fight with the Dread Doctors there was a showdown at Eichen House where Lydia was hurt. Deaton said the power was out for a period of time while you guys rescued her. Anyone want to tell me where Peter ended up?”

He folded his arms and waited.

Scott’s blank face was all the answer he needed.

 

A week had passed since Stiles and Ransom had been threatened by werewolf punks in the street and Stiles had been in a state of hyper-awareness ever since. It didn’t take much to make him jump at shadows these days but things were getting ridiculous. The nightmares the encounter inspired left him screaming his throat raw and hallucinating until Ransom had to brew him something herbal and absolutely disgusting (and safe for the bump) in order to knock him out.

He was beyond grateful to her. Ransom helped him without question when she had to be dying to know what was making him act like a basket case. She encouraged Gansey to accompany him when she wasn’t around and although he knew intellectually that the bullmastiff couldn’t protect him against werewolves, the dog would hopefully give him enough of a heads up if something got too close that he’d have a chance to grab some wolfsbane or mountain ash.

Ransom had also made it clear that Stiles was welcome to work with her at the store. His prior knowledge of the items she had for sale was something she needed in an employee and he could definitely use the money. So he followed her to work most days curious to see how it would pan out.

Surprisingly (or maybe not considering how well they got along) they worked around each other extremely well. He kept an eye on the shop while she read the future in customer’s palms. Ransom got a kick out of how Stiles wandered around the store absentmindedly picking up random items from jars and bins and adding them to squares of fabric that he carefully wrapped up.

“You do realize what you’re doing with that right?” Ransom spoke over Stiles’ shoulder with a grin in her voice.

“Hmm?” Stiles startled. He looked at the red sachet he had just finished wrapping. “Uh, yeah I think so. Fetishes right?”

She hummed in agreement reaching for the pouch. He let her pick it up with a bemused expression. “Fetish, gris-gris, mojo bag, it’s mostly the same thing. A pouch or object that is imbued with a spell or charm.”

Stiles looked at the red bag and licked his lips unconsciously, “My spark was pulling me. Like the Bumblebee Jasper wanted to go with the St. John’s Wort, a Hathor charm and Bathead root.”

Ransom stared down at the bundle, “For a woman fighting a serious illness.” Her voice took on the same kind of echoing intonation he felt when he heard her reading palms. He fought back a shiver. It was a similar reaction to the way Lydia’s Banshee predictions made him feel. His spark flared in harmony.

Stiles let out a “Huh.”

Ransom added the red pouch to the pile already accumulating in front of the altar she had dedicated to Marie Laveau at the back of the shop. She turned back to him, sweeping her hands in order to dissipate the energy clinging to her fingers.

“I think you should do one for yourself next,” she suggested. “We’re meeting the midwife after work today so I think maybe it would be a good idea to focus on that.”

Stiles stomach flopped with dread. “Don’t remind me,” he said tightly.

At the beginning of the week he had woken up to find his belly had popped overnight like some kind of Ellen Ripley-esque growth. His reflection in the mirror was unmistakably pregnant. The panic attack he had that morning was so severe it took Gansey laying his considerable weight over his legs and licking Stiles’ face raw before he came back to himself.

Ransom had found them and had a bit of a tantrum, so worried about him getting hurt during one of his panic attacks that she practically bullied him into agreeing to let her contact the midwife she knew. Looking at the tight stretch of skin over his belly, he had reluctantly agreed. It wasn’t like he could ignore it forever (his trademark stubbornness said ‘ _wanna bet?!_ ’).

A sting at the back of his skull brought him out of his thoughts. Stiles looked at his friend in disbelief, “Did you just slap the back of my head?!” He rubbed the back of his head ruefully unable to rid himself of the image of Lydia and Erica standing in line behind her. For a second he was swamped by homesickness. He  blinked back the hot blurriness fuzzing his vision before Ransom noticed.

“Yup,” she replied, blithely popping the ‘p’. “You were being a dummy.”

He huffed out a breath. “Sorry if this is a bit much for me to--” he waved his hands around helplessly, “consider. I just can’t believe I’m . . .” he dropped his voice to a hiss in case someone came in the shop, “pregnant!”

Ransom sucked in her lips sympathetically. Stiles caught a flash of her venom bites and felt the usual scrotum shrinkage at the thought of someone double piercing their tongue. _Guh!_ Nope.

“I can’t imagine.” She sympathized. “I mean, I sorta can. If I found out I was pregnant I would freakin’ flip. So if I found out I was pregnant and had a dick it would probably make my brain explode.”

Stiles scrubbed his face with his hands. “Oh god, stop. Mental images. I’m getting them.”

She flashed a toothy grin at him. “It will work out. Your spark knows what it’s doing. You need to trust it.” She placed a soft chamois pouch in his hands, “Here. I know you’re scared. I get that. But make something for yourself and the baby you’re carrying. It’s a good place to start.”

Stiles fingered the buttery soft leather and drew in a slow even breath. Okay. He could do this. He wasn’t one for backing down from a challenge and _this_. This might be the biggest challenge he’d faced yet.

Briefly he closed his eyes and let his spark warm him. He heard Ransom moving to the front of the store as a customer entered but since she had everything in control he let his surroundings fade away until he could focus his intent on the empty pouch in his hands. What did he want? A protection charm? Something for a safe birth (don’tfuckingthinkaboutit)? A healing bundle for a broken heart?

Instead of making a decision he let his spark and his intuition guide him. His mind was in too much of a mess to help. Stiles began to move around the shop, feeling out the energy of the objects housed within.

He picked up a conch shell, a dried mermaid pouch, a zoisite stone, a pinch of dried comfrey and finally, a bindrune that he stopped to burn out of an Ash coin. As he drew the rune Algiz on the quarter sized sliver of wood he figured he could stop wondering about whether or not the baby was werewolf by the choice of material. That was a pretty big indicator from his spark. Apparently he was meant to be a werewolf incubator.

Ransom stopped him before he could close the pouch up. She held out a tiny little vial that held a mysterious red powder. Stiles looked at her questioningly, his whiskey eyes glowing with the extra shine from his active spark. “This is for you both,” she offered, “a bit of red brick dust for protection and to repel unwanted presences.”

He nodded in appreciation and added it to the pouch, drawing the string decisively and wrapping it tightly while pouring his intent into the spell. Stiles closed his eyes and held tight.

 _Safety_. The way he felt wrapped tight in muscular arms. The scent of the preserve after a hard rain.

 _Longing for family_. Long sweeping lashes framing green-blue eyes flecked with gold. The last in a disappearing line of respected werewolves. The way furrowed brows and rolling eyes seemed Hale-specific. The way Derek used to look at Cora when he didn’t think anyone was looking.

 _Protection._ Treading water with a paralyzed 175 pound werewolf in 7ft of water for 2 hours. Derek protecting him from his own beta. Derek returning after being incognito for months just to rip apart Theo who was about to monologue him to death.

 _Love._ This one hurt. Stiles had to focus on his love for others instead of the other way around because it was just too painful otherwise. Making healthy meals for his hard-working father even when the communication was so bad between them that his dad wouldn’t meet his eyes. Stepping into a spreading puddle of kerosene to rescue his brother-in-arms. Acceptance of an unrequited love and gaining an unbelievable friendship in return; however bittersweet it was still a treasured gift. Hiding another growing attraction from another hopeless, unattainable Alpha only to seemingly have it returned in a single night unlike any other.

 _Pack._ This new life, this . . . baby. His and Derek’s. Stiles didn’t know if he would be sending it to Derek in the end, or easing into the idea of single parenthood, but he was slowly coming to the understanding that its life was irrevocably tied with his own. It may hurt. It may be a reminder of what he’d lost, or maybe what he’d never had to begin with. But if anything, it was literally a manifestation of his love for the sourwolf. How could he ever resent or be frightened of something that ever came from the grumpy Alpha?

The spell complete, his spark gently retreated and Stiles slumped, feeling a distinct drain on his energy.

Ransom was right there at his elbow. She handed him an unwrapped energy bar and guided him towards the nearest chair.

“Wow,” she said reverently, “I felt that.” After he took a bite of the bar, she traded it for a bottle of water and Stiles huffed good-naturedly.

“I got it. Eat. Drink. Repeat.”

“Smartass,” she chirped.

Reassured that he wasn’t going to face plant, Ransom returned to the counter where the phone was ringing.

Stiles looked down at the unassuming leather pouch. Well. He hadn’t planned on performing a powerful spell when he rolled out of bed this morning, but whaddya do? He shrugged mentally. Pregnant guy rolls with the punches. Or maybe just . . . rolls.

The rest of the day went by quickly if not uneventfully. Before they closed Stiles got to meet his first real zombie.

He was counting out the cash when the door opened and a tall gentlemen wearing a black funeral suit, red silk shirt and top hat stepped in. Stiles jolted when a skull-painted face turned towards him. His breath juddered out of him and his eyes darted questioningly to Ransom while his fingers slipped towards the pocket where he had some mountain ash stashed.

“Lou! Where y’at!” Ransom exclaimed from where she was dusting the candle section.

Uh. Okay. Stiles slowly pulled his fingers out of his pocket. That didn’t sound like ‘prepare all battle stations’. He watched cautiously.

The skull faced man smiled at Ransom’s greeting but remained silent. Ransom didn’t seem to care. She was busy pulling out a brown paper wrapped box that was clearly meant for him. As she set it on the counter she waved Stiles over for introductions.

“Stiles this is Lou. He’s a zombie with the local coven.”

Zombie.

“Coven?” Stiles said carefully.

She darted a glance at him, “Oh!” Her face cleared. “Not a Witches Coven! Sorry, no! Lou is part of the local Vampire Coven.”

That was . . .

Stiles gripped the counter as his knees jellied.

“Vampires are a thing?” Stiles choked.

She seemed to realize her mistake as Stile’s coloring went from porcelain to watered-down milk. “Aw shit, Stiles sorry!” Ransom winced. “Y _eee_ ah—tah dah?!”

A hysterical giggle burst from his lips. “Oh god. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that I ended up here.” He snickered helplessly. “I mean, witches, werewolves, zombies, frick’n **_vampires!!_** As a werewolf incubator I oughta fit right in!”

Ransom shifted from foot to foot. “Oh man. You have snapped like a party line. Time to take you home.”

Lou made some kind of noise that drew Ransom’s attention back to him. It seemed she was very familiar with the skeletal man’s gestures because she kept up a one-sided conversation all while lighting up a cigarillo for the seemingly mute zombie to enjoy.

“There you go Lou. This should take care of things for a bit.” She patted him on the shoulder all the while guiding him towards the door. She dropped the box in his hands and gave him a wave as he set off.

The sound of the lock engaging was music to Stiles’ ears. He sagged onto the stool behind the till and dropped his forehead onto his forearms. He felt like he was on the knife’s edge of a nervous breakdown.

“Stiles--?” Ransom’s voice said cautiously.

“Yeah?” His voice was muffled by the counter he was hiding his face on.

“Do you need a toke?”

He raised his head, blinking. “Are you offering?”

“Aw honey. If you make it through the meeting with the midwife without having a panic attack I’ll split one with you.”

“Deal.” Stiles agreed firmly. _Why the fuck not?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't hate Scott. I don't. Really. I just really, really, really, wish he treated Stiles better as a friend, ya know?


	11. Champagne Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song to read by: Little do you know - Alex and Sierra
> 
> Beware the triggers y'all
> 
> Lots of angst. Pools of angst. Some dirty grinding but mostly angst. :)

When they got home, Ransom wasn’t surprised Stiles only made it as far as the green couch in the den. Gansey was anxiously snotting at her jeans to indicate that his supper was in the _kitchen_ (full exclamation, bold, extra obnoxious font type) and what was she _waiting_ for?! So Stiles had an unimpeded path to the one piece of furniture in the house with the highest demand. Ransom paused long enough to make sure Stiles wasn’t asphyxiating on the lovingly worn corduroy before following the very anxious bulldog to the kitchen.

Once Gansey was satisfied, Ransom put the large container of shrimp gumbo in a pot to keep warm. It was the beginning of September and New Orleans Seafood Festival was in mid-swing. Far be it for her to pass up on the opportunity to take home fresh food instead of having to cook herself. If there was one thing she hated, it was cooking in the oppressive heat of late summer.

And while she hated turning on the stove with the passion of a thousand suns, she couldn’t fathom eating gumbo without fresh biscuits so she dug out her mixing bowl with only a somewhat begrudging huff. It didn’t take long. The recipe was her mémère’s and she had it memorized from repeated baking.

Putting the biscuits in the oven to cook, Ransom boiled water for some tea. Stiles should have something in his stomach before he ate; it tended to help with the nausea. Though it seemed to be getting a little better lately. She was hopeful that the morning sickness was tapering off, the kid couldn’t afford to lose any more weight. He had kind of a delicate look to him. An ill wind would scatter him like ashes.

She checked the time. They had an hour before Sophie was due to drop by. It should give them enough time to eat and unwind a bit. Stiles needed time to calm down before getting all stressed out again, and Ransom knew the impending visit from the midwife would wind him up. She hated to see him like this. If there was something she could do to help him she would. She didn’t want to see Stiles get back to the empty-eyed boy she had seen the night they had met. Even as much of a stranger as she’d been back then, Ransom hadn’t been able to explain the blind desperation to throw herself towards the falling teen. To save him.

Every choice since then had felt natural. Bring a complete stranger home? Okay. Let him stay in the spare room? Absolutely. Let their powers merge to discover his shocking secret? Well, _damn._ But . . . bring it!

Someone else might have questioned her choices but Ransom was confident she was doing what she was meant to. That weird dream she’d had before meeting Stiles, the one that got the ball rolling only confirmed that they were meant to run into each other for some reason. If his supernatural pregnancy was the cause, then fine. Ransom had to admit that she was growing attached to the boy for her own selfish reasons. He was like the slightly younger brother she never had. Or maybe even better than a brother because there was less fighting. Well, okay. Maybe they tussled over who got to read their favorite Fraction/Aja Hawkeye series. But that was a given.

It was nice having someone around, Ransom thought. She’d been on her own for too long. Refusing to get over Lee . . .

The buzzer on the stove went off and Ransom spun away from her thoughts to deliver her biscuits from the oven. She breathed in the hot buttery scent of her efforts and deemed the extra layer of sweat worth it.

“Stiles! Come get some supper!” Ransom yelled. She tried to sound as un-mom-like as possible.

There was the sound of a muffled thump. Gansey’s ears perked up and he heaved to his feet to go investigate.

Ransom was curious as well, she followed her dog to the living room which is where the sight of Stiles on the floor met her eyes.

“Stiles--?”

The young man in question was sleepily rubbing his elbow. “Fell off tha’ couch.” Stiles said sleepily.

“Oh god,” Ransom knelt at his side, “You okay?”

“M’fine.” Stiles cracked a yawn. He scratched at the dark trail of fine hair revealed by his rucked up t-shirt.

“Are you sure?” She worried, darting a glance at the unmistakable baby bump and felt a surge of guilt. “I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s my fault.”

Stiles followed her gaze and self-consciously tugged his shirt down. “Nah, I’m clumsy. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve fallen out of things; my bed. My Jeep. Chairs. Escalators. You name it I will fall out of it. I’m a disaster.”

“Seriously?” Ransom snorted.

Stiles lips quirked in an almost smile. “There was one time when we were kids, Sc—my best friend and I were on a trampoline. I got the bright idea to stick my arms and legs together in the sleeves of my hoody and jump around like a frog. He tried but he just wasn’t flexible enough, besides he was laughing too hard at me. Anyway. There I was hopping around the trampoline like some kind of mutant hoody frog. It was harder than it looked! I bounced on my ass more than my feet, flipping ass over ankles and sure enough I went right over the side of the trampoline. No safety nets back then right? So of course I landed on my upper back and cracked my collarbone. Spent the rest of summer break in a brace. My dad was so pissed.”

Ransom’s shoulders were shaking from restrained laughter. “Omg you are such a badass!”

Embarrassed, Stiles reached out to slap her arm. “Shut up.”

“No really, where were you when I was growing up?” She sniggered. “God we would have gotten into so much trouble.”

Stiles faked a quiver of terror. “Two of us? Wouldn’t that crack the space-time continuum?”

“Hasn’t yet.” Ransom shrugged with her red-lipped grin. “I like pushing the envelope.”

“Yeah you do.”

Ransom nudged Stiles shoulder playfully. “C’mon, supper’s ready.”

Stile’s perked up. “Gumbo?”

“Yeah, you fool.”

She helped him to his feet, anticipating the wobble when he straightened. It took Stiles a moment to regain his equilibrium and then she let go of his arm.

“Was it the Shrimp one?”

Her back was to him so he didn’t see her amused grin. “I don’t remember.” Lie. As if she could get anything else when seafood seemed to be the only thing Stiles could eat with any gusto. She couldn’t admit to catering to him, he would feel guilty. She was having too much fun playing oblivious caretaker.

Supper was served with their special brand of self-serve. Ransom couldn’t help the blush of satisfaction when Stiles bit into one of her biscuits and groaned blissfully. “Hlygrd,” he said around a mouthful, “Srw mrzng!”

He was ridiculous. When he dipped his spoon into the gumbo and fished out a whole shrimp he raised both arms into the air in a V of victory. Ransom couldn’t help laughing at him. That was it. She was keeping him. The kid needed her, and she needed him. If the Pontrain Pack had issues with Stiles being in New Orleans, they were going to find themselves going up against a very surprising enemy.

Happily full, it was Stiles turn to clean up. Ransom was content to sip her green tea and watch him stack up the plates.

“Are the dishes in the dishwasher dirty or clean?” Stiles asked, carrying the dishes over to the compost to scrape off the remainder. (Gansey was banned from seafood leftovers for life—two words—projectile diarrhea)

Ransom gave a fake sigh of impatience. “Stiles. We have a system.”

He eyed her in confusion for a moment. Then his face cleared. “Right. Check Christina.” He looked over to the ancient dishwasher to see which magnet was prominent on the front; Squeaky ‘clean’ Disney Christina Aguilera or sweaty-half naked ‘Dirty’ Christina Aguilera.

It was the magnet with the picture of Christina in her greasy ass-less chaps.

“Uh, dirty it is then.” Stiles determined. He obligingly put the dishes in the machine.

With a wicked grin that he missed, Ransom got to her feet and switched on the iPod on the kitchen counter. The familiar beat of the song came on and Stiles groaned, his chin dropping to his chest.

“Noooo! Ransom!” He whined.

“Ah, ah!” She waved away his complaints. She began to sing in her slightly off-key voice,

“Oh, I'm overdue  
Give me some room  
I'm comin through  
Paid my dues  
In the mood  
Me and the girls gonna shake the room..!!”

Ransom dragged Stiles closer and began to do hip rolls, spinning her body in a circle. She dragged him after her.

“You don’t want to do this!” Stiles shouted over the music. His face was threatening to crack into a smile though, so she wasn’t worried.

“Come on!” She shouted, hip-checking him.

“You asked for it!” Stiles was shaking his head ruefully. He used her grip on his hand to spin her like a top. Then he reeled her in, let go and sang the next verse,

“DJ's spinning (show your hands)  
Let's get dirrty (that's my jam)  
I need that, uh, to get me off  
Sweatin' until my clothes come off,”

Ransom almost choked on her saliva when Stiles began booty shaking like an official backup dancer. The hell--?! He did a couple hip ticks to the beat and followed it up by dropping it low, sweeping his knees coyly to the side and flashing them open. Good to know he could always moonlight as a stripper if they needed the cash—holy god!

Her mouth was still hanging open when he began to do a reverse pole climb, thumbs hooked on his hips like he was teasing at taking off his pants and rolled those hips in round teasing circles. She had a junior Shakira in her house all this time and she didn’t even know!

“You bitch!” squealed Ransom, “You have better moves than me!”

“I told you!” Stiles chuckled despite his crimson face.

Shaking off her shock, they finished off the next verse together, laughing through the words. Ransom couldn’t help snapping a dishtowel at Stiles’ ass as they hip ticked around the kitchen.

“It's explosive, speakers are pumping (oh)  
Still jumping, six in the morning  
Table dancing, glasses are crashing (oh)  
No question, time for some action!”

They collapsed at the kitchen table trying to catch their breath.

“How did you learn to do that?!” She demanded.

Stiles sipped at what was left of his tea. The color was high in his cheeks. It was a good look on him. “I was a lonely, curious bi-sexual kid with drag queen friends who liked to show me a good time.” He shrugged. “Plus I may have jerked off to that video a few hundred times. I learned by osmosis.”

“Ew,” Ransom wrinkled her face.

He gave her a shit-eating grin.

It was then that there was a knock on the front door. Gansey gave a startlingly loud, “Ruuh!!” in answer and scrambled for the hallway.

As Ransom passed Stiles to go answer the door she placed her hand on his shoulder in support. She wasn’t surprised to find him rigid with anxiety. “I’m right here Stiles. We’ll do whatever you want to do, okay?” She murmured.

He nodded silently.

Checking through the peephole to make sure, Ransom opened the door wide for the midwife. “Sophie! Good to see you again!”

“Ransom, sweetheart it’s always a pleasure!”

Stiles stood back in the hallway uneasily. He didn’t relish the thought of becoming the focus of attention, no matter how warm their voices were. If he’d had his way he’d keep this a secret all to himself. But since that wasn’t an option . . .

“Come in, please.” Ransom invited.

“My son, Bastien. You remember him? He’s carrying in some things for me, since he is training to follow in my footsteps. Is he welcome to join us?”

A meaningful look passed between the two women. Ransom sounded hesitant, “Bastien. Is he still . . . unaffiliated?”

The older woman, Sophie, blinked at the question. “Yes? It comes with the position of midwife. Because of our clients we need to pass unimpeded through all kinds of territories unchallenged.”

Ransom glanced at Stiles. “Okay. If Stiles is okay with it.”

“If I’m okay with what?” Stiles asked, confused.

A voice spoke up from behind Sophie on the porch, and Stiles caught sight of a blond head, “I think what they want to know. . .” the tall young man gently nudged passed his mother to join the bottleneck in the door. He looked up at Stiles and flashed his golden eyes at him, “is whether you are comfortable with a werewolf present.”

Stiles froze at the sight, his heartbeat spiking. His fingers itched to cover the scar on his neck.

“Ah,” the golden Adonis said gently. “That’s a no. I will take Gansey for a walk instead.”

“Oh he’ll love that,” Ransom gushed. “Thanks Bas.” She looked at Stiles worriedly.

Stiles found himself on the couch, blinking blankly. He had no recollection of moving from the hallway to there on his own. He found Ransom sitting next to him, warming his hands between hers.

“Sorry,” he apologized hoarsely.

“You have been through a great trauma,” The midwife said solemnly. She sat on the chair opposite them.

Stiles wanted to laugh but knew they would hear the bitterness. “Yeah.” He settled for.

“Stiles?” Ransom sounded worried. She lifted her eyes to his. He was confused for a moment by the grim set of her mouth. “Was this a result of . . . did someone . . . hurt you?”

When he made the connection he was horrified. “No! No gods no! There was all the consensual sex making,” he threw out anxiously. “Just—no one was expecting me to grow a magic uterus in order to cook a werewolf baby!”

“Sorry!” Ransom apologized unable to hide her relief, “It was just, your reaction to werewolves, your nightmares, and panic attacks. The fact that you’re a runaway—I just thought for a second…”

Stiles shook his head, “No. Der—the father—He’d never hurt me like that.”

“Is there another reason you don’t want to contact the other father of your child?” The midwife, Sophie asked. Without judgement.

His lips tightened. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

For a few minutes everyone was quiet as Sophie pulled out the portable ultrasound. It looked like a small laptop, complete with screen and funny looking wand thing.

“So Stiles,” Sophie finally turned to him. “Ransom shared that you are approximately 12 weeks along.” She waited until he nodded his confirmation. “I’d like to have a look to check and see how the baby is growing. Werewolf babies grow approximately the same in utero so the stages should look the same. However this pregnancy is the first of its kind. At least that I am aware of, so there could be . . . unexpected complications.”

“Great,” Stiles sighed. “Unexpected complications. That should be my motto.”

“No.” Ransom disagreed, “It should be, my hips don’t lie.”

Stiles couldn’t help the snort of laughter. He looked at her gratefully.

“If I could get you to lie down on the couch, Stiles,” Sophie directed him.

Ransom slipped off the end of the couch while Stiles got horizontal. With Sophie’s instruction, he pushed his jeans and underwear down almost obscenely low and hiked his shirt up under his armpits. He was fighting not to flush in humiliation but it was a losing battle.

“I’m going to check for the fundus,” Sophie told them, “Sorry if my hands are cold.”

“Ahha!” He yelped as her warning came too late. Her cold fingers pressed firmly against his pelvic region with almost uncomfortable intensity. “F-fundus?”

“That’s what you call the top of the uterus,” Sophie answered with a thoughtful look on her face as she poked and prodded at the gentle swell of his belly.

“Oh,” Stiles dropped his head back. “Right. I didn’t know that. Because I never _had one before!_ ”

Ransom hushed him fondly.

Sophie’s fingers stilled, “There it is.”

Stiles glanced down.

“It’s about the size of a grapefruit which is typical for 12 weeks.” Sophie smiled and the crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes wrinkled. “The baby should be about the size of a lime. Let’s have a look shall we?”

Stiles found himself unable to say anything around the tightness in his throat. Instead of thinking about what was freaking him out, he concentrated on why he found Sophie so familiar. She looked like an older Laegertha from the TV show Vikings. She had straight silver hair which was pulled back in a fancy braid at the crown of her head. Braids were probably helpful in her line of work, he thought randomly. She wore a brown tank top with turquoise beadwork, silver bracelets, denim jeans and brown leather boots.  Lydia would probably sniff at the outfit but Stiles found it was pleasantly earthy. 

“Okay, we’re ready,” Sophie announced, pulling her ultrasound machine closer. Ransom tried to scooch closer to Stiles’ head without being noticed but he did and silently appreciated the support.

“Unlike my hands, the gel is warm,” Sophie said wryly. She shook out a glob on Stile’s bare belly, underneath his bellybutton. It was a _weird_ sensation. Stiles licked his lips nervously.

Sophie held the strangely shaped wand over his belly, “Okay. I’m going to be pressing this into your belly and it might feel a little uncomfortable as I try to get the right angle to view the baby. It might aggravate your bladder so just take deep breaths and tell me if anything is wrong.”

Stiles meeped affirmation and tried not to jump as she pressed the wand into his lower abdomen.

It was uncomfortable. There was no two ways about it. Stiles kept expecting his dick to pop out from how low his clothes were pushed down. The heavy invasive prodding of the Doppler wand made him grind his teeth. He grabbed fistfuls of couch cushion, until Ransom encouraged him to take one of her hands instead.

“There’s your little one,” Sophie said, seeing something on the screen. She held the Doppler still on his belly and tapped something on the keyboard before turning the screen for him to see.

Stiles drew in a sharp breath. He wasn’t sure he wanted. . .

But then his eyes were frozen on the little black and white image displayed on the screen. He could see the quickly pulsing part that was the baby’s heart. “Is that--?” He started. Sophie smiled and pressed something that turned on the sound. It was a rapidly beating lubdub that could only be one thing.

Stiles breath got stuck in his throat.

“The head is here,” Sophie drew his attention to the screen as the small round shape seemed to bounce for a moment.

“It’s moving?” Stiles choked out.

“Of course!” Sophie said, amused. “You won’t feel it yet but if you poke your belly the baby will squirm. He or she is probably not very happy with me for waking them up.”

There was another movement and Stiles was flabbergasted to see what looked like an arm lift up towards its head. “Oh my god.” He choked.

“It seems to be a healthy 12 week old fetus. Congratulations.” Sophie told him warmly.

Stiles rubbed away the tears that suddenly filled his eyes, sniffling.

He accepted the handful of Kleenex Ransom handed him in order to wipe up the remainder of gel on his belly. Then he pulled his pants back up and curled up in the corner of the couch with his arms wrapped tight around his knees, feeling vulnerable.

“So what now?” His voice sounded gravelly.

Sophie finished putting away her machine and then sat back in her chair. “I’m going to do a few more tests on you before I leave. Routine tests that I do on everyone. They may or may not apply to you but I’d rather be thorough. I can share my experiences with you on having a werewolf pregnancy so that may help.”

He cleared his throat in surprise. “Thank you.”

Sophie sat forward a little, “Stiles I understand that your circumstances have not been positive but it is my oath as a midwife to protect you and your child. When I say I will do everything I can to help you, I am not saying this lightly.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay. I appreciate that.”

“My son is under the same oath. From the little history you’ve shared with us, I can guess your contact with werewolves was complex. Despite that I would like you to give Bastian a chance to assist us. Not only does he make an excellent midwife but his very nature offers protection. If you are still uncomfortable we can adjust to your needs.”

It was hard to explain how much his instincts screamed at him to run away from werewolves right now, but Stiles nodded slowly. “I’ll give it a try. I can’t promise it will work out. It doesn’t have anything to do with your son, it’s just--” He shrugged helplessly.

“That’s fair,” Sophie agreed.

While Sophie went about drawing his blood, which, _ugh_ , Stiles sat there in a numb haze. It was one thing to have his Spark confirm the pregnancy; it was completely another to see a live image of the baby _inside_ him. The baby that looked like a baby. All baby shaped and everything.

Stiles covered his face with his hands. Holy god. He was having Derek’s baby.

“Stiles?” Ransom said softly. “Are you okay?”

 _I’m fine_ , was on his lips. He was so used to saying it. But he really, really wasn’t. He was almost half a continent away from the only other person he wished could be here with him for this. Stiles closed his eyes tightly unable to squeeze back the tears.

“S-sorry. It’s just a lot,” Stiles said wetly, grabbing some more Kleenex.

“Is there anyone we can call for you?” Sophie asked.

“There’s really not.” Stiles said hollowly.

“I apologize. It’s none of my business,” a male voice joined in. Stiles looked up startled, wondering when the werewolf had returned. He hadn’t even noticed. “But your mate, you don’t think he is worried about you?”

Stiles frowned in confusion, “Mate? Dude, I don’t have a mate.”

Now the blond, Bastien, looked confused. He shared a glance with his mother. “But that is an Alpha’s mating bite on your shoulder.”

Stiles slapped a hand self-consciously over the bite. “What--? No. He didn’t—I’m not—” His breath suddenly grew shallow and he hunched forward. A thought suddenly occurred to Stiles and it was like the ground suddenly dropped out from under him. _What if I’m Derek’s mate and he still didn’t want me?_  

Someone was making an agonized wheezing sound. Stiles was trying to suck air into his cement lungs and couldn’t make the connection that it was him. Someone’s hands were cradling his cheeks, he lifted his eyes and looked into Ransom’s frightened face. She was saying something but he couldn’t hear her over the frantic thudding of his heartbeat. The edges of his vision were going spotty. He was going to pass out.

He wasn’t sure what happened next. His surroundings lurched like he was being lifted. Stiles was beyond noticing specific details, all his energy was being directed into the struggle to breathe. He did notice vaguely that he was resting against a firm chest, a hand was pressing against his head so that his ear came to rest against someone’s steady heartbeat. Strong arms wrapped around him tightly, but not restricting. Just enough to provide the sense of comfort. Stiles sagged into the body underneath him on instinct.

The couch shifted as another body joined them. This time Stiles recognized Ransom’s scent, her blend of vanilla bean and patchouli tickling his nose. The top of her head gently bumped his chin as she got comfortable.

The weight surrounding him was grounding. Stiles found his breath evening out and his pulse slowing. Exhaustion followed panic attack and he found his eyelids drooping.

“S’that was embr’sing.” Stiles slurred.

“Rest Stiles,” Bastien rumbled from underneath him.

As much as he was loathe to do exactly that, on a strange werewolf, no less, Stiles slipped into unconsciousness.

 

When he came to, he was in the same position as before only someone had wrapped him in a blanket. He was lulled by the gentle motion of Bastian’s breathing, selfishly unwilling to move for a few moments yet.

Ransom was sitting up between Stiles’ legs talking to Sophie in a quiet voice.

“—not sure what they might want with him.”

“Well,” Sophie replied, “beyond the usual check in with a local pack, I can’t say how the encounter would go.  Bo Tracy is usually a reasonable Alpha. I haven’t heard of many problems. We certainly haven’t had any issues with them.”

“Leo is the one we ran into. He said he smelled Alpha on Stiles. I’m sure he reported that,” Ransom said grimly, “If Stiles is summoned, Tracy is going to want an explanation.”

There was silence for a moment as both women thought of possible outcomes.

“His mating bite cannot be hidden,” Sophie said at last. “If Stiles is unwilling to involve or identify his Alpha, Tracy may force Stiles to choose between leaving the area, and joining his pack.”

Ransom made an angry noise, “He can’t do that!”

Sophie grimaced, “Stiles is, in effect, an omega. Tracy has the full force of his pack behind him to make sure his order is enforced.”

Stiles tried not to move, or make a sound as the information sank in. His stomach dropped with dread.

“Then there is the matter of his pregnancy,” Sophie added reluctantly.

“What about it?” Ransom asked defensively.

Stiles couldn’t help it. He tensed, waiting for the answer.

Bastien barely moved but there was a barely there squeeze on Stiles’ arm. An offer of comfort.

“I can’t predict the Alpha’s reaction to Stiles’ ability to carry young. Tracy may not care. But something tells me that even if his personal reasons are ambivalent other reasons will magnify his interest in Stiles.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Stiles spoke up, his voice rough from sleep.

Sophie didn’t look surprised to see him awake. She nodded in agreement. “I don’t approve of anything that puts you under stress, Stiles. You are extremely at risk right now. I have a suggestion and I will leave it with you to think on.”

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly. He sat up with Ransom’s help, which allowed Bastien to rearrange himself in a more upright position. Stiles’ avoided the werewolf’s gaze, feeling heat on his ears.

Sophie met her son’s gaze once more as if waiting for confirmation. “Our status as midwives affords us the particular ability to move among territories and packs without challenge. It has just been Bastien and I for a long time. We have resided in New Orleans for the last ten years, travelling where we are needed on occasion. As a midwife I can extend my protection to those I bring into our pack.”

Stiles grew rigid.

Sophie raised a hand, sensing his unease. “I am not asking you to join a pack, Stiles. We don’t have that ability even if we wanted. Neither Bastien nor I are Alphas. We are a family unit but we call ourselves a pack for Bastien’s sake. It keeps other werewolves from labelling him wrongly as an Omega.”

“So,” Stiles began, “If I join your ‘pack’ what does that entail?”

Allowing herself a smile, Sophie explained, “If you _and_ Ransom join the Renard Pack the only expectation we have of you is that we would like to get to know you better as Bastien and I continue in our role as your Midwives. It doesn’t have to be permanent. If you chose to leave New Orleans in the future we will not hold you back.”

“Joining us will also keep the Pontrain Pack from doing anything against your will,” Bastien added solemnly.

Stiles nodded. “Can I? Think about it I mean?”

“Of course.” Sophie said warmly. “And Stiles. If you chose not to that is okay too. There is no pressure. We will help you no matter what your decision is.”

Stiles lifted his chin in acknowledgement.

He sat quietly on the couch with his thoughts as Sophie and Bastien collected their equipment and made their exit. They seemed to sense that Stiles was past the point of overwhelmed.

When Ransom returned from locking the door after them, she bounced onto the couch next to him. He looked at her in confusion as he surfed the shockwaves of her arrival. “What’s with you?” He asked her.

Ransom jumped up and down on the cushion with an inward squeal, “Holy crap! I was just invited into a pack!”

Stiles worried his eyeballs would get stuck in his skull as he rolled them hard. He planted his open palm on Ransom’s cheerful face and shoved her backwards.

 

He was there again. In the foyer of the burnt out Hale house. Derek had lost count of how many times in the last few weeks he had closed his eyes and found himself standing in the ashy remains of his former life. It was weird how he always retained enough knowledge that he was dreaming. That he knew his house no longer stood here, instead, only a monument in a meadow remained of this bittersweet memory.

Despite whether this being a dream or not, his nostrils were already flaring wide, seeking a hint of Stiles on the musty air. He cocked his head from one side to the other as he moved forward towards the central stairway. He usually had luck finding Stiles upstairs at the end of the hall, but this time he caught a hint of that tantalizing sweetgrass scent and this time it was drifting from the kitchen.

“Sti--” Derek froze to a stop on the threshold, transfixed by the sight within.

Stiles was standing with his back to Derek in the blackened kitchen. He was barefoot and wearing only a pair of rumpled pajama pants. His pale mole dotted back seemed to glow in the sun that poured in through the shattered windows.

He must have made some kind of sound because Stiles slowly turned in place. Derek’s eyes were drawn from Stiles’ dazed golden eyes, to the large fruit bowl he was holding in his almost slack grip.

“Stiles--?”

Stiles blinked at the sound of Derek’s voice. “Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

Golden eyes dragged away from Derek’s to look down at the fruit bowl. A little frown puckered his forehead. “Oh.”

Derek heard Stiles’ heart beat pick up. “What’s wrong? Stiles?”

“Somebody want’s this,” Stiles said, he looked up at Derek and the expression on his face was heartbreaking. Derek felt himself moving forward automatically. “But I don’t want to Derek. It’s mine. Ours.”

“The fruit salad?” Derek was confused. The feel of Stiles in his arms was almost overwhelming in intensity. His wolf side was snarling and frothing in reaction to an invisible threat to his mate. He could feel the violent way Stiles’ was trembling. The young man was terrified.

Stiles grabbed onto his shirt. “I don’t know what to do! I’m scared, Derek.”

Derek had to admit, he was scared too. “Tell me what to do, Stiles. How do I find you?”

Stiles went impossibly still in his arms. Derek tried to grip him tighter. “NO! No, Stiles! Stay with me!”

“Dere—”

 

Derek woke up with a furious and wounded roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to my readers. You are my patient little angels. Mwa!


	12. Interconnected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since I updated, I was busy adding a chapter to another story. But I'm back now! :) Still plugging away!
> 
> For your listening pleasure may I suggest Lose You by Nick Gardner and Demons by Imagine Dragons (Thanks Grandspark for the suggestion!!)
> 
> Now for the next installment in this madness--
> 
>  
> 
> OH AND HEADS UP NSFW PIC AT BOTTOM OF PG (heh--bottom)

Danny sat in front of his monitor, hand covering his mouth thoughtfully as he viewed what he had found on Stiles.

He told Lydia that he wasn’t going to reveal Stiles’ location to the others, but for his own conscience, he needed to make sure that his ex-classmate was in a good place. So he ran checks on Stile’s new bank cards; hacked a few security cams. What he was seeing was promising, if not a little perplexing.

Stiles seemed to have settled down in New Orleans. He was sharing a house that was registered to one Olive Belikov. He also worked in a shop owned by the same woman. His purchases were pretty basic, and Danny approved when it seemed that Stiles seemed to stick to cash only. However there was one debit receipt Danny kept going over with a bit of consternation. It was for pre-natal vitamins, a body pillow, unsalted crackers, bottled water, and several yards of elastic fabric.

Did Stiles knock someone up? Rubbing his fingers over his lips was a nervous habit, Danny dropped his hand when he realized he was doing it. Was this why Stiles ran? Was he ashamed of being a teenage parent? Maybe Danny would have believed that theory except there was no evidence Stiles had been in contact with this Olive person prior to one month ago. So unless it was a recent development . . . nah not even that made sense. The crackers indicated morning sickness, which didn’t usually start until week six if he remembered Sex-Ed correctly. So either it was just a weird purchase, or Stiles’ friend was pregnant before meeting him. Which was completely possible.

Putting that thought to bed for the moment, Danny examined a webcam capture of Stiles’ image. The younger boy was a little leaner than Danny remembered. His face was pale, despite him being in the sunny south; shadows bruised the hollows under his eyes.

Danny got the feeling that Stiles was unhappy. Either that or ill. He didn’t look at all like the goofy, sarcastic, best friend of Scott McCall. He looked exhausted and almost . . . sad. Danny felt a rare surge of compassion (not that he _didn’t_ —he was just very selective about those he felt that way about).

What the hell happened in Beacon Hills to make Stiles run?

And why was _NotMiguel_ harassing Lydia and now him about giving up Stiles location? If Lydia wasn’t friends with Derek Hotlikeburning Hale he would have thought maybe it was an abusive relationship gone wrong. Dude was a little _intense._ He was probably one of the werewolves Stiles warned him about.

Scrolling aimlessly through the purchases that he was able to track, Danny paused once more. One sculpted eyebrow rose. _Unscented body butter?_ He was making a cognitive leap, being a fellow guy and all, that the body butter was for personal time except the store it came from was a maternity store.

Danny shook his head. Who was he to question Stiles’ weirdness? The kid still wore Batman underwear.

So other than a few odd purchases, Stiles looked like he was settling in to New Orleans fairly well. At least as much as Danny could tell without being there in person. And that’s where he drew the line. The younger male ran away for a reason, who was he to interfere with that?

Danny decided he would continue to keep an eye on Stiles occasionally. There was something niggling him about the shadows clinging to the other boys eyes. He may not have decided to give the crew from Beacon Hills Stiles’ details (no matter how scary Lydia got), but he would continue to monitor the situation just in case.

 

Derek was leaning against one of the supporting beams of his partially constructed house staring in shock at the sheet of paper that he’d just pulled out of his fax machine. It was a picture of Stiles, forwarded by Lydia from Danny. It was just a profile pic, it contained nothing defining about Stiles’ location, or the identification of what seemed to be a companion. Just Stiles.

It looked like he was in the middle of a conversation; his mouth was half open, animated hands held up by his face in mid-gesticulation. A typical Stiles expression. Derek’s fingers traced the outline of the picture with a visceral surge of longing.

The arrival of the picture gutted him more than he expected. No matter how much Danny assured them that Stiles was fine, Derek needed to _see_ that it was the case with his own eyes. He would have been happier to see it in person but.

In the picture Stiles was obviously talking to someone off screen. It was taken off a store cam so the resolution was regrettably grainy and in cheap black and white. But there was no mistaking Stiles’ slightly upturned nose with the adorable divot in the tip, or the mole on his right cheek; the largest in a constellation that trailed down that sinfully long neck.

Derek refused to acknowledge he just thought in terms of _adorable_ and _sinful_ with regards to Stiles Stilinski. He knew he had it bad for the young spark but there was a _line_ and he was pretty sure he just crossed it. So much for those man-points. He huffed out his nose at himself. He could almost hear Stiles teasingly calling him a _donut_.

He couldn’t avoid the relief though. Stiles was alive. He was okay. He seemed to have at least one friend indicated by the trademark slanted grin aimed at an unknown person. It simultaneously killed Derek yet relieved him to know that the boy had someone.

It wasn’t the highest quality picture and Derek was sure that Danny cut out any details that would betray Stiles’ location. The hacker was doing his best to ensure the Alpha made a trip up to Massachusetts to have a little conversation involving _throats_ and _teeth_.

The part of Derek that was tightly wound due to the nature of his very lucid yet confusing dreams, relaxed a bit. He’d been imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios for Stiles to get caught up in. It was a relief to see him unharmed.

And yet.

Derek wanted to see him. If only just the once, to explain. To apologize. If nothing else, he would be happy just to know that if there were any misunderstandings, he had done his part (though long overdue) to make it up to the younger man. If it was too late for anything resembling friendship, _never mind anything more_ , he could say that he did his best to clear up any possible hurt. He swallowed around the lump of shame in his throat.

God. He always screwed everything up. He’d heard Stiles’ profession of love the night they spent together. He should never have pretended otherwise. He’d just been brave enough to take what they shared for those few hours. No matter what his instincts were telling him, Stiles couldn’t possibly need _him_ the way he’d always denied needing the exasperating yet most trustworthy person he’d ever let past his defenses in return. Of course he didn’t realize he’d lose something infinitely precious by falling back on his near decade-old fear. Instead of working through it or at least admitting his hesitation, he’d let Stiles walk out the door. Biggest mistake of his life.

He jolted when his cellphone buzzed in his pocket. Derek reached back and pulled out the phone.

“Lydia,”

“You got it then.” The banshee didn’t mess around.

Derek huffed through his nose quietly. “Yeah.”

“Danny said Stiles is living with someone, and working. He doesn’t see any problems. He won’t budge on giving us his location.”

Derek swallowed back the growl. “What about your premonitions?” _And my dreams_ , he left unsaid.

Lydia scoffed at Derek’s use of the word premonitions to describe her weird intuition. It didn’t feel anywhere near as reliable as premonitions were said to be. “It comes and goes but it’s still there. Mostly at night now.”

Pressing his lips together tightly, Derek still didn’t like it. To have any kind of sixth sense like they were having was a sign. To have two people experiencing them was a little like a neon banner saying ‘ _pay attention idiots’_!!

“I can--” Derek twitched, “--call Braeden if I have to. She owes me.”

Lydia gave an unamused laugh, “That I would pay to see.”

Derek knew it would be a disaster but he would do it if it got him results.

“No Derek, not unless we have no other options,” Lydia sighed. She added, almost as an afterthought, “I get the feeling Danny is mystified about something.”

Derek’s hand tightened on the phone. “What--?” _If that kid is toying around with Stiles . . ._

Lydia picked up on his thoroughly unimpressed tone. “I didn’t mean it to sound like Danny’s making a game of this. I mean something caught his attention. Enough that he’s watching Stiles closely. Which is good in a way. If anything happens, Danny won’t hesitate to call.”

That did not reassure Derek at all.

“If something happens, we could be _too late!_ ” Derek growled.

“We could be too late every minute of every day,” Lydia said calmly. “It’s the best we can do for now.”

Derek pressed his fingers to his forehead. _She’s right._ He allowed reluctantly. He didn’t have to like it.

“So,” Lydia said briskly, “how’s our house coming along? Did the wood arrive?”

He allowed the subject change almost gratefully. “It came on Monday, the frame is already up.”

“And--? Is it as amazing as John said it would be?” Lydia waited impatiently.

Derek placed his palm on the dense grain of the hemlock post he’d been leaning on. “It’s completely worth the ridiculous price,” he deadpanned, knowing it was what she was waiting to hear.

He pulled the phone away from his ear just in time for the excited screech.

 _Banshee’s_. He thought dryly.

“I knew it!” She crowed. “We’ll be the first ones in Beacon Hills to have submerged lumber in our construction! If only you’d let me arrange for an article in the--”

“ **No**.”

He couldn’t help the slight lip quirk at the indignant sputter he could hear over the line as Lydia tried to argue the merits of having the unique construction points of the pack house as part of a distinguished magazine spread. Derek stood firmly by the belief that the less outsiders knew about the quirks of their home (den) the better.

He suspected that she knew this and was only trying to get his mind off Stiles. A rare warm feeling blossomed in his chest. He had a good pack. They would make this work.

When he got off the phone with Lydia, Derek took a few minutes to take in the span of the construction he stood in the center of. It was still just the bare bones. Only the cement foundation and the first floor’s framework was raised but it was enough to demonstrate the magnitude of his pack’s new home. When finished the sprawling Cape Cod would be one of a kind with 7 bedrooms; each with their own bathroom. Some of the features he thought about as he skimmed his eyes over the site included the Captain’s Walk that would overlook the ridge and part of the preserve, a Library, a 3-car garage, a huge open concept kitchen with walk-in pantry, and a wraparound rear porch and veranda. Lydia was pushing for a pool and outdoor hot tub. Derek was firmly standing by his decision that if she wanted those things she could foot the bill (he was certain she would cave sooner than later—Lydia liked her comforts).

Derek could see the potential appearing before his eyes, where before it had just been ink on paper. It was a bit overwhelming, and emotional; to have a home again after all these years. A Hale house rising from the ashes.

The only thing that would make it better, of course, would be if Stiles came home and joined them.

Despite his absence though, Derek was doing his best to make sure that Stiles presence was felt as the pack house took shape. Even if his mate never returned to Beacon Hills, Derek still felt the urge to make his home as much a part of Stiles as any other pack member.

The wooden beams that outlined the packs future were made from Hemlock. The lumber was imported from Poland. After an interesting chat with John at one of the many communal barbeques, Derek learned how the Stilinski ancestral family harvested trees and submerged them in a lake for a hundred years in order to make beautifully carved furniture (usually reserved for weddings) or for construction since the submerged wood had a more dense grain than regular wood and therefore was more fire repellant.

That caught Derek’s attention of course. And before he knew it, they were contacting one of the still living great-uncle Stilinski’s in Gdansk, Poland and placing a colossally expensive order for enough wood to provide the frame and flooring for the house.

So one could say that Stiles was metaphorically the bones of the new Hale pack house.

Derek took a seat on the temporary stairs climbing up the side of the foundation and sighed. He looked down on Stiles’ image. “Come home.” He said out loud, interrupting the late afternoon crickets, “I’m an idiot, Stiles and you have my permission to call me that as long as you want.”

He looked at the picture he held helplessly.

“Just—please, come home.”

 

Ransom and Stiles were busy closing up shop. They were in a bit of a hurry today. Ransom wanted to drag him to a couple stores on the way home, despite his many complaints about sore feet—she was determined to flesh out his wardrobe if it killed him; and it might.

Stiles stopped by his altar to Dziewanna and as always, felt a flash of pleasure being present in the small space that he claimed for his patron deity. It was a small space, just a small corner where he set up a raised altar. The bronzed statue of a maiden stood surrounded by found figures of various wildlife, predominantly dogs and wolves (go figure). Every time he made his way over it seemed there was a new creature adorning the table, left by another well-meaning customer. Today there was a little toy bear, and a plastic Halloween raven added to the mix.

His statue of the Slavic Goddess of the Hunt could easily be mistaken for the Roman Diana, for obvious reasons (they were both hard-to-conquer maidens, lunar goddesses known for ruling the wilderness and celebrated for their fertility). He didn’t mind the frequent mistaken identity by customers, instead he embraced the idea that each spirituality had a common thread. Stiles did however, personalize the altar in the spirit of his Polish ancestors with a framed print of The Black Madonna of Częstochowa, known for many miracles.

Placing his daily fetish contribution at the base of the altar to charge for the evening Stiles turned around to see Ransom slinging the keys around her pointer finger impatiently.

“Ready?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Almost.” He reached behind the counter to grab his ever present tumbler half-full with his now-tepid herbal tea. “Do we really have to do this?” He whined.

As Ransom locked the store behind them, she turned to level him with a disbelieving stare. She deliberately looked at his chest, then down at hers.

Okay, so maybe he was wearing her white tee-shirt that stated _‘I am a delicate flower, god-dammit, you will treat me like a **fucking** lady.’_  He was getting touch with his feminine side, alright? And so what if it barely covered his baby bump--?! He was barely in his second trimester. He could pass it off as a beer-pooch. Or an emergency Craniectomy where he had to have part of his skull removed for brain surgery and preserve it in his stomach till a later surgery—what? It happened. He’d heard about it somewhere.

Ransom was doing that thing with her tongue. Stiles cringed. She knew it drove him crazy. She was rattling her piercings along her teeth and it was _worse_ than nails on a chalkboard. Hell, it was worse than Harris repeatedly lining up his post-it notes.

Stiles flapped his arms in her direction, “Me! What about _your_ shirt?!” He ended up stabbing his finger at her accusingly. Ransom was wearing his black (because of course it has to be black, Stiles--!) shirt that said _‘I would bottom you so hard.’_

They were the poster children for co-dependent room-mates.

Her face brightened up immediately, “What an amazing suggestion Stiles! I’m so glad you thought of it! We should both go shopping for new clothes!”

Stiles face buckled into a frown. Dammit. Outmaneuvered again.

“What are you subjecting him to?” a deep voice asked.

Stiles meeped in fright and dropped his hand to his belt buckle.

In mid-spin, he realized it was only Bastien and Gansey coming up the sidewalk towards them. His hand dropped away from what looked like a typical punk belt of ‘fake’ M60 bullets. But Stiles’ version had a variety of mixtures hidden in his. From wolfs bane, mountain ash, crushed quartz, to mistletoe, he had a mini arsenal at his disposal. It wouldn’t do anything large scale but hopefully it would be enough to get him out of dodge.

And he’d almost used it on one of his midwives—mid-husb—mid-wolves. Whatever the fuck dude was.

Bastien didn’t miss Stiles’ defensive twitch and to his credit, didn’t even blink. Only looked from him to Ransom in question.

“We’re going shopping,” Ransom said cheerily.

Actively trying to get his heartbeat to settle, Stiles could only relent sullenly.

So for the rest of the evening, Stiles was subjected to the most torturous activity known to mankind. Clothes shopping.

No.

Even worse than that. Clothes shopping . . . with a sadistic female.

He thought Lydia was bad. Gods help him if Ransom and Lydia ever conspired together at a mall. His life would be forfeit. He would prostrate himself as an offering to the gods of dressing rooms . . . he would—

“Ransom said to try this on,” Bastien said, handing him an armful of pants.

Stiles glared at the traitor. The shockingly attractive deliverer of babies was no longer in danger of being undressed by his eyes. He was aiding and abetting. It was an unforgivable sin.

“I am not going to be able to wear skinny jeans--” Stiles said through tightly clenched teeth.

Ransom’s head popped up over Bastien’s muscled shoulder, “Oh yes you are!” She sang, “Remember that stretchy fabric we bought last week? I’m going to sew belly bands into all your jeans!” Her offensive head disappeared.

Stiles stared a hole into Bastien’s shoulder in horror. _Belly bands?_ He mouthed.

“No you are not!” Stiles shouted, his voice cracking embarrassingly. “I will wear triple x sweat pants before you make me wear a . . .” and here he whispered in horror, “belly band!!!”

“Not with that ass honey!” Ransom trilled.

Stiles surged for her throat suddenly, violently, wanting to acquaint it with his hands. He blamed it on the pregnancy hormones. Or he would if Bastian hadn’t easily placed a hand on his shoulder and held him back from committing messy homicide.

“It would be a shame to hide that ass,” Bastian acknowledged, with crinkled blue eyes.

Stiles immediately stopped pushing at the iron grip pinching his shoulder and sputtered at the werewolf. Did he just--?

Ransom’s cackle brought him back to earth.

“You—you are such a witch!!” Stiles accused her.

She knew it for the affection it was cast, “ _Daw_ , I love your sparkle-butt too!” Ransom reached awkwardly through Bastien’s arm to pat Stiles affectionately on the head. “Can we stop staring at your boxers and go get food now?”

Stiles squawked.

 

They ended up stopping at a food truck for some Jambalaya. There were no tables to sit at, so the trio plus Gansey found a patch of grass to sprawl out over while eating their meal. Ransom pushed away her dog’s too inquisitive nose with a firm palm. She sat crisscross with her teeny-tiny plaid skirt hiked up her thighs (thank god for tights), tapping one converse-clad toe against the ground.

Ransom frantically waved away Bastian’s attempt to feed Gansey some of his shrimp.

“Oh god, do not give him any. If you drop your plate I’m asking you to provide the ultimate sacrifice and sit on it,” Ransom begged them. “Gansey will smell like a rotting garbage truck that threw up diarrhea if he eats this.”

“Okaaay.” Stiles gagged. He handed his plate over to Bastien in resignation. “I was enjoying my meal. Thank you so much for that.”

“Sorry,” Ransom said forlornly.

Bastien sat back properly chastised. He popped the shrimp into his mouth with an apologetic shrug towards the dog. His massive shoulders flexed under his soft denim blue t-shirt as he leaned back on his arms.

Gansey very much looked as though Ransom was a lying liar who lied. He gazed at them with very sad, liquid, brown eyes.

“I’ve seen it, buddy.” Stiles told the dog in a no-nonsense tone. “I witnessed what you did to the donuts. It was inhumane.”

Huffing in a very put out manner, the dog placed his large head down on his paws.

When the food was gone, Stiles stood up. “Well, I’m done being your amusement for the evening. I need to head home and put my feet up.” He wasn’t lying. His ten little digits were singing with ouchie.

“Fine,” Ransom sighed. She swung the shopping bags in a wide arc which indicated to Stiles she wasn’t unhappy at all, the little faker. He felt his lips twitch with a fond smile.

“I’ll walk back with you. I can take your blood pressure when we get to the house,” Bastian offered to Stiles. He pushed his sunglasses back on his head now that it was getting darker out. The motion only shoved the bed-head style hair out of his tanned face.

Stiles could only nod his head. This was his life now. He had hot werewolves escorting him home to take his blood pressure. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the irony. It was pretty sad that there was only one werewolf he cared about getting his blood pressure up in any significant way; and he was carrying his baby.

Scott would have a stroke.

That thought actually made Stiles smirk a little.

The walk home wasn’t that far. Well, it shouldn’t have been far except Stiles and Ransom eventually devolved from walking to competing with each other in a Moulin Rouge style duet complete with burlesque accompaniment.

Bastien took it all in stride, still walking along slowly with Gansey on leash. The werewolf’s lips twitched every time the bull mastiff let out groaning whines of complaint, jerking on the lead in an attempt to join in (or end) the spectacle that was the two walk/shimmying in front. 

Somehow Ransom had got a hold of a feather and she was smacking Stiles with it like a whip while she belted out, _“He met Marmalade down in old Moulin Rouge, struttin' her stuff on the street--!”_

Stiles spit out a feather indignantly. Of course she would find a feather. They were in New Orleans. Where else could you walk down a street and find a garish ostrich feather dyed a hideous purple?

Finished with her orgasmic crotch grabbing, Ransom raised her eyebrows expectantly at him.

Not to be outdone, Stiles stalked up to her with an exaggerated catwalk, then backed up teasingly, crooking his fingers, _“He sat in her boudoir while she freshened up, boy drank all that Magnolia wine, on her black satin sheets, suedes dark green, yeah—”_ Stiles sang in a not-half-bad approximation of Pink’s raw raspy voice. His retreat was full of saucy half hip rolls and micro-tiks that make Ransom think that with a few _actual_ belly dancing lessons, the boy would be killer.

“Oh my god, did your drag queen friends ever put you in a corset?” Ransom blurted out suddenly, her head tilted appraisingly as she measured Stiles’ wiggly little hips.

There was a slight choking noise behind her that she ignored.

Stiles grimaced, “No _oo_?”

“That came out like a question.” Ransom pointed out unhelpfully.

What had started out as a choking noise transformed into a low growl. Both Ransom and Stiles twisted around at the same time as Gansey let out a particularly throaty bark of warning.

“Get closer to me,” Bastien hissed, “We have company.”

_Shit._

Stiles heartbeat rocketed in his chest but was distracted by the sensation of Ransom’s fingers tangling with his left hand. She made sure not to block his other one from access to his belt.

Bastien was a solid presence at their back as a small group of shadows solidified from the corner up ahead.

As the group walked closer to them Stiles had the opportunity to think of how this run-in was basically inevitable. If he planned to remain in New Orleans, which it seemed he did, he was going to have to face this one way or another.

His choice was fairly simple. Leave his fate up to an unknown Alpha and his pack. Or join Sophie and Bastien in their family unit and be protected under their midwife status until he chose to make a different decision. At least Sophie and Bastien had been up front about their intentions; intentions which to his knowledge were completely based on his need for his protection and nothing else. And their deal included Ransom.

Stiles squeezed Ransom’s hand reassuringly before letting go and taking one measured step forward.

“Pontrain Pack, I assume?” Stiles called out, his voice sounding steadier than his heartbeat.

“Just a delegation, I’m afraid,” came a voice with the kind of bass tremor that normally would hint at steroid usage. When the werewolf in question stepped forward, it took all Stiles’ control not to take a step back instinctively.

 _Whoo, Daddy . . ._ his brain blurted hysterically.

Stiles felt his eyes widen. He cursed at his body’s sudden but inevitable betrayal. He was pretty sure he’d watched porn with a guy (er, didn’t they call them _bears?_ ) who looked like this once. Okay, maybe twice.

Dude was easily 6ft and absolutely solid with muscle. He was slightly silvered, which only raised the hotness factor (he did not just think that) He outdid Derek at the height of his Alpha bulk and that was saying something. Was this guy the Pontrain Alpha Tracy? _Oh god, Stiles_ , he pleaded with himself. _If he is, don’t giggle. Do NOT giggle_.

Reluctantly dragging his eyes from _Big Dude_ , Stiles recognized _Asshole_ from before. Leo, he remembered Ransom calling him. He bristled. He didn’t like the way the dumpster-diving beta was standing with his arms crossed like a sulky teen.

“Okay, yeah,” Stiles said, tapping his fingertips against his thigh. “So—you want to tell me how I can help you? I don’t want to stand here all night. Things to do.”

Big Dude smirked, while Leo scowled harder.

“You are quite mouthy, even for an Alpha’s mate.”

Stiles’ lips tightened. So they were gonna do that now? Great.

“About that. It was all a misunderstanding.” He said flippantly. “New Alpha, got a little bitey. Didn’t mean to get werewolf hitched. I’m my own woma—I mean man. Man. Definitely a man.” Stiles rued the day he moved in with Ransom and seemingly lost all remaining manhood. It had nothing at all to do with growing a magical uterus and was also not related to the percentage of Christina Aguilera songs they acted out for funsies.

The werewolves of the Pontrain pack couldn’t hear any deceit in his heartbeat when he mentioned his Alpha but that left them confused.

“Who is this Alpha, then, little spark?” Big Dude asked, “I would like to know of an Alpha so careless.”

He may have partly run away from the pain of Derek’s indifference but _no one_ was going to call his—his Derek _careless._

Stiles’ answering grin was humorless. It was all teeth. “I’m sorry.” It was clear he was anything but. “We haven’t been introduced. “As much as I _love_ your nickname for me, I prefer to be called Mitch.”

Big Guy didn’t seemed to be put off by his casual dismissal. His smiled slowly, his eyes dragging up Stile’s form, “Mitch. My name is Callum Sinclair. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Second of Pontrain Pack.”

Fuckitty fuck.

“Well then, you can let your Alpha know that I have no plans to encroach on your territory. I just want to live and work in peace.” Stiles could feel a tension headache brewing. If his fingers weren’t out in the open, he would cross them for luck.

Callum _hmmed_ at his announcement. “That is good news, I’m sure Tracy will be reassured to hear this. However,”

Every muscle in Stiles’ body seemed to turn to stone, if stone could quiver in dread.

“We cannot have an unclaimed Alpha’s mate in our territory. It would be seen as a weakness to other packs.” The huge second explained.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. _Here it comes,_

“It is in your best interest that we offer a place in our pack for you. We will protect you from danger, provide a safe place for you to continue your calling as a Spark.” Callum shrugged his mountainous shoulders, “It would be a shame for you to have to leave so soon after making such meaningful friendships.”

If Stiles had hackles, that flippant comment would have them standing on end. He had made his mind up earlier but just to make sure . . .

“Bastien?” Stiles called over his shoulder.

“Yes Mitch?” God love the beautiful fucker for picking that up so fast.

“Is the offer from before still on the table?” Stiles didn’t dare take his eyes off the Second for a moment. The slight frown on his face indicated he wasn’t happy with the change in conversation.

“It is. As was agreed upon previously.”

Stiles nodded sharply. “Well then, Callum, please extend my sincere apologies to your Alpha but I’m going to have to decline your generous offer.”

“What?!” Leo barked in outrage.

Callum lifted an arm to cut his protest short. The serious guns on the werewolf would be enough to stop Stiles in his place.

“Then you have until the dark moon to be out of New Orleans, Mitch,” Callum said firmly.

“Actually,” Stiles spoke up, “My agreement to join the Renard Pack allows me the freedom to pass through your territory unchallenged.”

Callum’s head snapped up to glare over Stiles’ shoulder at Bastien. There was a flare of electric blue as the wolves’ exchanged growls. “Is this true?” He rumbled at the midwife.

“It is. Mitch and Ransom have both been welcomed into our Pack,” Bastien said calmly.

Nostrils flaring with displeasure, Callum nodded after a loaded moment. He met Stiles’ gaze once more. “We will meet again.”

Stiles pressed his lips together. Not if he could help it.

The small group of Pontrain Pack turned to go when Stiles’ shitty luck turned for the worst.

The evening breeze picked up and swirled past Stiles, towards the half-turned Pontrain Second who suddenly stiffened in sudden growing awareness.

Stiles saw the way Callum’s eyes darted towards him. The way his pupils widened then dilated at a scent carried downwind.

It only took Stiles micro seconds to recognize the threat; his fingers were already unscrewing one of his bullets. Time seemed to slow down as the hulking werewolf spun on his heel and lunged for him.

Mountain ash was already forming a perfect circle around him and his friends as Bastien pushed Stiles behind himself, half-crouched protectively between them and Callum.

“The fuck Cal?” Leo yelled.

The terrifying Were was pacing in front of the barrier, huffing in draughts of Stiles’ previously unnoticed scent.

“The spark is breeding!” Callum roared, half-feral. “How—?” He spun in mid stride and lunged toward where Stiles was huddled in Ransom’s arms. “You’re male, but . . . pupped--?!”

Stiles breath was coming in shallow whistles. He didn’t notice how he curved instinctively around his belly. He had no words now, too shaken by the sudden shift from somewhat civil interaction to attempted kidnapping.

Gansey was snarling and frothing at the mouth as he barked furiously at the gathering crowd. It was drawing too much attention.

“C’mon Cal,” a petite dark skinned woman came forward from the pack. “We can’t interfere with the Renard’s. We’d have pissed off packs from _everywhere_ on our heads.”

The Second allowed himself to be drawn away from the Mountain Ash circle but he didn’t break his gaze from Stiles’ until they were out of sight. Its weight carried an unspoken promise.

Even as close to passing out as he was, Stiles recognized when he was going to have a problem on his hands.

“Oh god, that almost scared the pee out of me.” Stiles gasped inelegantly for air. One hand rested protectively over his gentle swell.

Ransom snorted a reluctantly amused huff into his crown.

“No really,” he slapped at the hands that were holding him down, “I really gotta pee.”

Bastien looked relieved as he helped Stiles to his feet.

“Foot massages, both of you,” Stiles pointed at his two friends unashamedly. “Pee first then I deserve simultaneous foot rubs.”

For once Ransom didn’t put up a fight.   

 

 

 

 

NSFW Below (only one---but)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Callum

 

 Bastien

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Ehm Gee. What is with the Werewolf eyecandy?!! Hummina. Wait until Stiles gets into the second trimester a bit more and another symptom raises its 'ahem' head. *giggles evilly*
> 
> Yes Derek is the only mancandy for Stiles. Don't fret, pretties. Just needless torture for my favorite spark. :D
> 
> Note: Reynard Pack is not a "Pack" it is a family unit that includes a human mother and werewolf son. No Alpha. The freedom of territory agreement lies in the supernatural midwife status which requires frequent travel.


	13. Perfect Combination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song to read by: Ghost of Me - Daughtry
> 
> So many additional tags to be aware of here and I may not get them all so Pttpth, I tried:  
> Fluffy Angst/Angsty Fluff, Food porn/Food desecration, Hot O/C werewolves, Accidental Polish endearments, a bit of PTSD Stiles, Unintentional Drug Use, naughty well-meaning friends, God-dammit Ransom, What even is Stiles' life, Poly-sortasexualbutnotreally-pack, Really Horny 2nd Trimester Stiles, Whiskey bitch slap, 
> 
> and a reminder: this is a fanfic, not a TW documentary. I do my best but i'm not writing for syndication. minute details are because I wanna, not because I need an in with Jeff Davis (although we cool man, we cool).

Stiles spent the beginning of his 16th week of pregnancy (and that would _never_ not be weird to say in his head) helping Ransom and Bastien clear the clutter out of the second floor of Ransom’s house. Well, he mostly supervised since neither his housemate nor his midwolf (and _you_ didn’t think he’d come up with an accurate term— _ha!!_ ) would let him do any strenuous work.

It’s not like there was a lot of stuff on the second floor anyway; it was mostly empty cardboard boxes from previous moves, a few stacks of books and cobweb-y antique furniture. The space was completely open, almost like an attic, it probably effectively was since Stiles guessed the pitched ceiling was all that was between them and the open sky. The windows at either end provided great natural lighting. The south end, at the back of the house, was in the shape of a half-moon rosette. That’s where they placed his new futon.

Over the old wide-planked floors by the bed they placed an ancient oriental rug that Bastien had beat the shit out of earlier. If there was any dust left on that thing, it was severely cowed. Stiles knew that he’d been impressed. Nothing passed the time like watching a werewolf attack a limp carpet like it was the enemy. It didn’t hurt that Bastien was easy on the eyes. Sooo easy on the eyes . . .

Stiles sighed inwardly. _Down boy._

He kept his hands busy folding his few clothes and putting them away in the rickety dresser that was already upstairs. He liked the flea market-esque feel of the space. It felt more like something at his level, a kid pretending to adult, living on his own for the first time.

The reality was, because of the reaction of the Pontrain Pack the other week, Bastien was not comfortable leaving him and Ransom alone in the house until matters were more settled. So they agreed that he would take the room that Stiles had been sleeping in, affectionately called the mini-library, and Stiles would take the entirety of the upstairs. Ransom’s explanation (*coff* excuse) had been that he would need the space when the baby came along anyway. Babies came with stuff, she explained graciously. As though the thought had never occurred to him.

Stiles had allowed the move. It wasn’t like he could argue. The mini-library wasn’t his to begin with. He would miss the walls of books though. Now if he wanted, he could start his own collection.

Even with all his belongings set up on his end of the upper floor, it was still pretty roomy. Stiles found he liked the sense of space. It reminded him of the . . . of the Loft.

He averted his eyes to the shirt he was folding. Quickly he thought of something to distract himself with. Like the table. There was a square table with a mug of fresh flowers in the center. Peonies.

They were out of season, it being the end of September and all, but Ransom had a little slip of a courtyard in the back where she had an equally small garden. She had used her witchy powers to encourage a couple of blooms for his room. They were exquisitely fragrant. Pale pink blossoms that looked almost white, they reminded Stiles of the ranunculus his mom had happily grown in her own garden. It was a fond memory.

The scent of the flowers along with the cross-breeze flowing through was enough to settle Stiles into the space. His spark was gently infusing the room with his personal imprint, making it ready for the moment that he set his protection wards in place.

The air had the scent of ozone on it. Stiles expected an incoming storm. Probably not too far off if he could feel the electricity of it prickling at his skin. It was peak hurricane season in New Orleans so Bastien was helping Ransom finish up fixing the storm shutters in place just to be cautious. Stiles asked for his windows to be last.

“Stiiiiles!” Ransom was yelling up the landing.

“What?”

“I want brownies!”

She sounded plaintive. Stiles smirked. He had her hooked on his cooking. Not that he did a lot of it. Not as much as he did for his dad, anyway. But way more than Ransom did in comparison. His brownies were a favorite.

He finished putting away his socks and shut the squeaky drawer. When he rocked back on his heels and then forward to raise himself to his feet his hand automatically went to the swell of his belly. It was more than just a protective instinct now. Stiles found himself fascinated despite himself with the smooth stretch of pale skin over the tight pressure where his unborn child grew. It was no longer just an abstract thought now that he’d seen the image on Sophie’s Doppler machine more than a few times. At the last check in his little were-baby had been sucking its tiny thumb.

Ridiculous amounts of cute. Totally his side of the family.

Stiles made his way down the stairs to where it they ended in the kitchen. “Sup?” He nodded to Bastien and Ransom.

“I need chocolate, Stiles. All that hard work is _hard!_ ” Ransom aimed a pout towards him.

“Alright. Stiles’ famous brownies coming up!” he said, rolling his plaid shirt up to the elbows. He gestured at his dusty roomie, “Grab the butter and chocolate.”

“30 seconds in the microwave?” Ransom checked in.

“At a time,” Stiles corrected, digging out the heavy ceramic mixing bowl he loved. “Should only need to do it two or three times.”

And so it went. Stiles began mixing up the ingredients, delegating some of the recipe to cut the time in half.

He put half of the batter in the baking pan and then poured a caramel sauce between layers. The scent of chocolate and caramel was redolent in the air even before he slid the pan into the warmed oven.

“Okay, we have half an hour.” Stiles announced, licking his long fingers free of chocolate.

“Just in time for the pizza to get here,” Bastian added, wiggling his phone in the air.

“Nice!” Stiles approved.

“And for Stiles to get his hair done!” Ransom chirped, making space at the sink.

“Righ—huh?” To say he did a double take was an understatement. Stiles’ jerky flail clearly indicated his confusion. He almost slapped himself in the face. “Say what now? What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with it.” She said in the way all girls had the knack of saying in such a way that meant _everything_ was wrong with it. With an unsaid ‘ ** _duh_** _’_ in there for emphasis. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Bastian roll his eyes. “It’s just getting a bit shaggy--”

Stiles stared at her dubiously. He liked the witch well enough—but did he trust her with scissors?  With guiding sharp objects around his head?!!

Ransom broke. “Please, Stiles? Can I play with your hair? Please, please, please--?!!”

He sighed in defeat. “Fine. Yes you can play with my hair you shameless creature.” It wasn’t like he couldn’t buzz cut away any disaster she could wreak upon him. It might be cooler anyway to wear it buzzed in all this humidity.

“Yes!” Ransom dove for the clippers on the counter with a bit too much enthusiasm.

Stiles shared an uneasy look with Bastian who shrugged. “I have a Nursing degree,” the scruffy blond hottie shared.

‘Nuff said.

Ransom scoffed while she backed Stiles up to the sink. “You guys are assholes. I used to cut my boyfriend Lee’s—” her breath caught for a second before she continued and Stiles lifted his eyes to her face in surprise, “hair all the time.”

Stiles gnawed on his lip to keep himself from asking questions. Ransom had barely shared any of her past with him (same way his was an unspoken non-subject, he supposed). But the way her expression flickered with devastation for a moment before she recovered her composure hinted it was a sensitive subject. He could empathize.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to look like a band member of the Dropkick Murphy’s so—”

“How ‘bout a cute pixie cut, it would look sweet with your long eyelashes and pouty lips,” Ransom simpered evilly.

Stiles sputtered in outrage under the spray of tap water, “I swear I’ll give you a purple nurple--!”

“I’ll give _you_ a purple nurple!!”

 

Ransom was still working on his head when the timer for his brownies went off so Stiles asked Bastien to pull them out of the oven.

He might be developing a kink for werewolves wearing oven mitts. At least, according to his half-chub. Bastien looked absolutely edible leaning over the open oven in those worn jeans, wearing Ransom’s leopard print mitts. That needed to go on a calendar.

Could he at least meet _one_ werewolf that was ugly as sin?

Stiles tried to think of Ransom giving him a pixie cut in order to deflate the evil traitor between his legs before the supernatural nose in the room picked through the scent of brownies and zeroed in on his arousal.

Fuck, what was up with him? (Despite the obvious)

Speaking of scents, Stiles’ nose crinkled. “What’s that smell?”

“Bleach,” Ransom answered. Her fingers were sorting through the hair on his crown, assisted by, of all things, an old toothbrush.

His immediate instinct was to squirm away but Ransom anticipated his move and jabbed her knee right between his legs. Stiles yelped as her knee came awfully close to his balls. “Hey!!”

“Keep still if you don’t want me to melt off your eyebrows!” She ordered him.

“What are you doing?!”

“Dyeing your hair, goober.”

“Yeah—uh why?”

Ransom was leaning over him now in order to get where she wanted. Which now placed her perky boobs in his face. Stiles swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Why didn’t he run off to Alaska? Why did he have to choose New Orleans where everyone wore spaghetti strap tank tops and not, like, parkas instead? Jeezus.

“Because I wanna play. With. Your. Hair.” She growled, tugging on the roots of his hair so that his eyes watered with pain.

“Aaaaughokayokay!!” Stiles surrendered to the scary chick straddling him.

There was the sound of a shutter clicking and Stiles looked past Ransom to see Bastien with her phone.

“You are so going to pay for that,” Stiles told him. “I will put laxatives in your oyster sandwich.”

Bastian gave him an unrepentant smirk, complete with a hint of sharp canines, “I will smell the laxative.”

Stiles met his grin with a scary one of his own. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” He let the confident werewolf think on that for a bit.

That’s when the pizza guy chose to show up and Bastien disappeared to go pay for their supper. By now rain had started to fall and when Bas came back the top pizza boxes were sprinkled with rain drops.

To Stiles complete humiliation Ransom snapped a plastic shower cap over his head and stood back to level him with a no-nonsense look. “Don’t touch it. It needs time to lift.”

He had no idea what she was talking about but damned if he was going to mess with her masterpiece. The gleam in her eyes was scary.

Bastien snapped another picture and Stiles slapped his thigh hard in punishment on his way past to grab a slice of pizza. _Ow, ow, ow_ , he chanted silently as his hand sung with pain. He shook his tingling fingers out when no one was looking. Goddamn werewolves and their thighs of steel.

Stiles had no words for how happy he was to be able to hold a piece of hot, cheese-drippy pizza and not want to upchuck. His morning sickness was now relegated to just mornings. Yay! Even then it seemed to be less vicious. Food was so much better when he knew it was going to stay down.

Pizza was even better when he added a smear of peanut butter.

“Whrt?” Stiles said around his mouthful. Ransom’s eyebrows were halfway up her forehead.

“Ew.”

“Naw. S’good.” He held his piece out for her to try. With her lip curled suspiciously, Ransom leaned forward to take a nibble. Then a bigger bite when the taste registered.

“Gimme the jar,” She impatiently made grabby hands.

“You two are kindred spirits,” Bastien said incredulously. He was holding his meat lover’s slice protectively. Strangely enough he didn’t sound complimentary.

Stiles and Ransom ignored him, sharing the peanut butter. They gave up on propriety and just began dipping their slices into the mouth of the jar. Neither noticed when Bastien took another picture.

When he was full, Stiles leaned back and groaned, rubbing his food baby (which was also his _baby_ -baby but details shmetails). “That. Was. Awesome.” He sighed contentedly. He drank a mouthful of root beer.

Bastien was still making his way through another box but he raised his slice in a ‘cheer’s.

Ransom put her half-eaten slice down. “Gotta rinse your hair before you turn albino on us.”

Stiles’ face contorted. “Yes. That would be . . . bad.” Then he had a mental image of Justin Bieber and scrambled for the chair backed up to the sink. “Shit, get it off!”

Ransom grinned at his panic but she didn’t understand his anguish. “Relax Stiles, I got this.”

His fingers only released their death grip on the arm rest when she was finished shampooing the bleach and toner combination out of his hair. She draped a towel over his head and gave him a cursory pat. “Looks good so far,” she winked at him. “Dry off and I’ll show you what I did.”

“I’m scared,” Stiles admitted to the quiet werewolf sitting at the small kitchen table.

Bastien gave him a heart-breakers’ smile. It was ridiculous. Stiles’ heart tripped. Goddamn that man would make someone _very_ happy. “You look fine, Stiles.” He said supportively.

Ransom broke out the hairdryer and all conversation took a backseat until she had tugged Stiles’ hair into submission. When it was finally clicked off, she lightly slicked her fingers in hair product and swept them through what was left of his hair.

From the feel of it, she’d done the usual spiky updo in the front and just smoothed the rest down.

“There,” Ransom said smugly. “Now that’s what I call _damn_ hot.”

Not that he doubted her opinion on hotness level . . . nah he totally didn’t trust her. Stiles jumped out of the chair. “Okay, am I allowed to see this now?” He touched the front of his hair tentatively and got a slap in the arm for his trouble.

He dodged her and headed for the bathroom down the hallway.

Flicking on the light, Stiles stuck his head in front of the large ornately framed oval mirror and blinked at the person looking back at him.

He was reserving judgement on the buzz cutting for the moment, he decided. She had trimmed it nice and short around the sides and back; left him a bit more of a sideburn than normal, and some length at the top. Kind of James Dean-ish, he meh-ed at his reflection. But instead of a poofy pompadour thing the hair at his crown was tousled and spiky in an artfully messy way.

It wasn’t the cut that was shockingly different though. It was the way that his longer locks at the top went from his natural sable brown to a lighter and lighter auburn.

He could . . . he could live with it. He nodded at himself, licking his lips.

“Yes!” Ransom’s piercing squeal made him jump. He hadn’t realized she was watching him from the doorway. He sagged against the sink with one hand on his heart.

“GOD!” Stiles exhaled shakily. “Don’t do that!”

“You like it!” Ransom did a little victory dance that involved slinging him around by his belt loops (mindful of the bump—but still) and throwing her arms around his chest for a tight squeeze. “I’m so glad you like it!!” She said with her face smooshed into his shoulder.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “You just love torturing helpless creatures, admit it!”

She pinched his ass, “You’re not helpless, Stiles. I just wanted you to look as good as you should feel.”

Aw, that was actually very thoughtful. If a little backwards. He melted a little.

“Doesn’t that saying go, ‘you look good, you feel good’?” Stiles couldn’t help teasing her.

He leaned his bum out of the way of her incoming fingers. Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski couldn’t learn on the run!

They chased each other back into the kitchen and Stiles immediately took refuge behind Bastien.

“Save me, save me, save me!” He was laughing breathlessly as he danced around the werewolf, using him as an effective shield between him and an advancing Ransom.

“You should stop,” Bastien said, his lips quirked in a smile, “You’re giving the little one hiccups.”

That stopped them in their tracks.

“What?” Stiles blurted. His hand immediately went to his middle.

Bastien heard the slight rise in Stiles’ heartbeat and hurried to correct him, “It’s nothing harmful. Babies in utero get hiccups all the time. I think your running around is just exciting the baby.”

Stiles calmed down at the reassurance. He couldn’t feel anything yet. He wished he could borrow werewolf senses at random so he could hear the baby. He looked down at the bump under his ratty old Blink 182 t-shirt. “Moya malutka kochanie, I was just fooling around,” he murmured to his bump, brushing his fingers lightly over the firm skin.

After a few moments of absolute silence, Stiles looked up blinking. Silence was not a natural state in this household. What was the matter?

Both Bastien and Ransom were looking at him with raw emotion exposed on their faces. Ransom had one hand hovering over her open mouth, and Bas—Bastien’s eyes were flaring beta gold. Stiles realized what he had just done belatedly and dropped his eyes to avoid the heavy level of feels in the room. Even he felt his throat lock up around something indefinable. 

 _I just spoke to the baby_ , Stiles realized shakily. _I just spoke to my baby. In Polish. Like my mom did with me ._ . .

Something warm and wet was trickling down Stiles cheek. He tried to sniff discreetly but of course he was being drawn into a hug sandwich between his two friends. Which prompted more freakin’ tears. He let out a short laugh-sob into Bastien’s red button-up.

“It’s okay, Stiles. It’s gonna be okay.” Ransom murmured into his shoulder blade. Her fingers squeezing his hips lightly in support.

 

So needless to say, after that little breakdown in the kitchen it was time for brownies and wine. Since the lights were already flickering, threatening to cut out due to the storm, they decided to gather up their goodies and camp out in Stiles’ new space for the evening.

Stiles carried his pan of brownies up with him while the other two took a moment to change into more comfortable clothing before following him up with the rest of their treasures.

Taking the few moments he would get alone, Stiles changed into a pair of jersey sleep pants and a clean t-shirt. He cupped his slightly rounded belly in his hands and allowed himself a moment to feel overwhelmed and dizzy with conflicted feelings.

He would have to get a full length mirror to prop against the wall so he could check his progress. Stiles swallowed nervously. Or maybe not. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do more, give into his curiosity and reluctantly growing attachment; or bury his head in the sand. He wasn’t sure he had a choice. It was beginning to look like his subconscious was making the decision for him.

He’d always been so ridiculously drawn to Derek Hale. It made sense he’d be an emotional wreck when it came to their child.

_Their child—_

“Stiles?” Ransom’s hushed voice reached him.

He raised his head sharply, blinking his honey-colored eyes clear. “Mm—yeah?”

“You okay?”

Stiles waved her up, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just, you know. Hormones.” He flicked an unsteady smile her way.

The second floor was filled with shadows that were slowly pushed back into the far corners by the candles Ransom began to place on all available surfaces. Stiles felt the shiver of a spell brush over his skin.

“Fire safety spell?” He asked her from the mound of blankets he was curling up under, on his new futon.

Ransom flicked her fingers. Stiles was pretty sure it wasn’t his imagination when he saw a scatter of sparks fall from the tips.

“Yeah, don’t wanna get drunk and roast my house. Gansey would pee on my ghost.” She said with a quirk of her ruby red lips.

Stiles blinked, an afterimage of another house overlaid the one he was in. The smell of decades old ash and gasoline tickled his nose relentlessly and threatened to make him gag.

Warm hands gripped his shoulders. “Stiles?” He was given a little shake.

The use of his name snapped him out of his trance. Stiles inhaled the comforting amber scent of Bastien gratefully. “S-sorry. Got lost there for a second,” he stuttered. He blinked in realization that Bastien was kneeling in front of him. “Hey, when did you get here?”

Bas and Ransom shared a look over his head. “A few minutes ago. You were just staring at nothing Stiles. Are you okay?”

Stiles rubbed his forehead. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Flashback. Sorry.”

The bluesy sound of Frazey Ford began to croon softly in the background as Ransom did something with her iPhone and a pair of tiny speakers. When she turned around she had three wine glasses in her hands.

She offered one to Stiles.

“But,” he looked between her and Bastien in confusion, “pregnant people aren’t supposed to drink. Aren’t they?”

Bastien tipped his head, “Normally it’s discouraged. But there are studies that a small amount of wine is actually beneficial. Not to mention you are carrying a werewolf. Wine doesn’t affect us.”

Stiles accepted the glass with a frown.

“You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable, Stiles.” Ransom said softly. “I just thought a little might relax you.”

Stiles looked at Bastien, “You swear?”

“On my life, and my mothers.” Bas said solemnly.

Raising his glass Stiles said, “Bottoms up.”

 

Not that much time passed before Stiles realized he was feeling more floaty and giggly than one measly glass of—of red wine should make him. His head lolled on his shoulders, knocking back into Bastien’s shoulder. He stared upside down at the werewolf who was relaxed, but not Stiles levels of relaxed. He shot Ransom a suspicious glance.

“Ransum, djoo spike my brownies again?” Stiles asked accusingly.

His roommate/landlord/wish—witch-y person was working on another glass of wine. She dusted off the brownie from her lips before she answered.

“Yes!” She brayed like a hyena, folding over at the waist like it was the most hilarious thing ever.

It was. Stiles felt himself giggling in response to her giggling. The sound popped in his ears like lite soapy bubbles.

“You’re banned from the kitchen nexsht time.” Stiles pointed a long narrow finger at her.

“It’s my kitchen!” She cried.

“S’my brownies.”

They glared at each other for a second before Stiles lips started twitching. Then Ransom bit hers to keep from laughing. Which made Stiles make a dying cow sound in order to try and hold his back.

Bastien’s amused snort jostled Stiles from his place, leaning against the low lying futon frame.

He poked the werewolf’s knee. “You’re not silly,” Stiles pouted. It was an accusation.

Even though it was clear Bastien was enjoying watching the two of them make fools of themselves he was only pleasantly relaxed. “No. It would take many, many, more brownies for the pot to affect me. Even briefly.”

“All the brownies?” Stiles asked, his eyes widening in wonder.

Bastien’s full lips curved warmly, “So many of the brownies.” He agreed.

“Ransum!” Stiles cried, his voice wobbling. “We didn’t make enough brownies!” He sounded devastated. Bastien wanted to slap himself in the face for making the boy sound so upset.

Ransom’s lip trembled in empathy. She held out her arms for a hug and Stiles dove forward, both of them ignoring her half-finished glass as they both spilled over onto the floor in a tangle of limbs.

“Oh, no,” Bastien groaned under his breath.

 

Stiles didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the lazily moving ceiling fan overhead. That was until someone jostled his elbow and the world immediately spun with stomach-dropping vertigo. He grabbed for hold of something reflexively. “Oh god. Don’t move me. I’m gunna fall.”

Someone huffed.

The sound made Stiles tear up. “D’rek? Someone left me on the ceiling. Don’t leave me here.”

“--not on the ceiling,” a female voice spoke from below his ribs.

“Oh god!” Stiles sniffling, “Now our baby is talking D’rek. Can you get me down? The ceiling isn’t a good place for the baby.”

There was muffled swearing.

“How much pot butter did you put in the brownies Ransom?” The person growled. “Goddamn it, he’s tripping hard!”

“Shh—you’ll wake the baby Bastien,” the girl-voice hushed the growling voice.

There were some more choice words and Stiles was starting to panic. It didn’t sound like Sourwolf. In fact he didn’t know who the voices belonged to. He was floating, light as a feather, but unmoored and he felt if he moved or twitched a muscle he would plummet to the earth.

Someone’s hands grasped him by the arms and Stiles flailed. “No--! Wurs Derek?!” he cried out, his voice cracking with terror.

“Stiles—it’s Bastien, you’re okay. We’ve got you. Ransom and I are here in the house. You’re having a bad reaction to Ransom’s pot,” a comforting voice was trying to soothe him over the pounding of his heart. “I just need you to keep breathing, nice and slow, and this anxiety will pass.”

The hands were now moving him so that he was on his side? Wrapping him in someone’s arms? Stiles was confused. How could he be laying down if he was floating on the ceiling?

“Whr’s D’rek?” Stiles slurred, his body moving restlessly. He didn’t feel safe without the broody asshole nearby. He wanted him _there_ dammit!

Another band of arms wrapped around him from the front and a head nudged under his chin, “I’m so sorry Stiles,” Ransom sniffled, leaking tears down the front of his old shirt. “This is all my fault.”

“S’always leaving.” Stiles’ breath whined out of him, “Why’m I never n’uff?”

Bastien and Ransom wrapped themselves around Stiles tightly while the Spark shivered miserably through the rest of his high.

 

The first thought Stiles had upon waking was that he needed curtains. Because the sun was a hateful, hateful, ball of gas shining straight into his aching eye sockets. The second thought was more a mess of confusion because how did he end up in a pack pile? The soft snoring tickling the hairs against his forearm was indication of one sleeping body, the heavy thigh wedged between his legs was a red flag announcing the other.

He would have totally opened his eyes to investigate but that led to the third and more humiliating thought he had which was that his boxers seemed to be sticking to his lower belly with rapidly cooling come.

Stiles wanted to whimper in humiliation. Oh god, he woke himself up with a wet dream.

In bed with Ransom and Bastien.

_Fucking fuckitty fuck rabbits._

He was so screwed.

There was no way he could even wriggle out of the futon without being noticed because he was rather effectively pinned by his two friends. All he could do was lay there and wait for the inevitable.

Which of course, this being his life, the werewolf stirred first. No doubt drawn from his slumber by the scent of Stiles’ spend cooling _excruciating_ close to Bastien’s firm thigh. Stiles did not want to think of any possible accidental sleep grinding that may have happened. He winced, gnawing on his lip anxiously.

And of course fucking Bastien was adorable as a sleepy lion cub the way he slowly drifted to consciousness. It was just unfair.

Stiles firmly blamed Bastien’s half-asleep state for the way the other male scrubbed his scruffy chin over Stiles’ shoulder, wuffing contented breaths of, no doubt, the cocktail of scent rising from the younger males embarrassed and aroused form. He was sure he looked like an unattractive ruddy tomato by now.

“Mmf—Stiles?” Bastien said in a sleep rough voice.

Stiles did not leak pre-come. Goddamn it. Fucking hormones.

“Sorry,” he squeaked out, mortified by his body.

Bastien’s blue-green eyes blinked open, “Nothing to be sorry about.” He hmmed contentedly. He bit back a yawn. “It’s not the way I would have chosen to scent mark human pack mates, but your body seems to have decided that for us. There is no shame in it.”

He looked up at Stiles under his ridiculously long blond eyelashes, “May I?” he rumbled.

Stiles didn’t know what he-- “What—oh? Uh help yourself,” he squeaked out when he realized Bastian had a hand down his sleep shorts, grasping his own morning wood. Stiles felt like he was overheating. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and pooled in his collar bones as he realized he was lying in bed while a super-hot werewolf casually pulled one off.

His dick was valiantly trying to make a comeback. Stiles gritted his teeth. _No. Bad mini-Stiles!_

He was doing okay until he realized Ransom was awake and was watching them with heavy-lidded eyes. When she saw Stiles staring at her and how she was squirming around the hand between her legs she shot him an unrepentant grin. “So we’re gonna be one of _those_ packs, huh?” she winked teasingly. Then she made a little inward sigh and shuddered, curling against Stiles’ side as she rode out an orgasm.

Bastien’s nose flared with the new elixir of scent. His mouth dropped open with a long groan. The purple tip of his cock poked past the elastic of his pants and a stripe of ejaculate shot out and branded his bare chest and across of his tan nipples.

Stile’s back arched, “Cheezus Crackers!” he choked out in a strangled voice. His balls felt bruised from coming so soon after his wet dream but he barely touched himself and he found himself bucking up into his palm, pulsing out his aching pleasure.

After that, the trio sagged into the comfortable down filled mattress trying to catch their breath. No one retreated to give anyone more space so Stiles was trying to be optimistic that what just happened wasn’t a huge, HUGE, glaring mistake.

“Stiles, I can smell your anxiety.” Bastien said fondly.

Ransom snorted. “You can smell that through all the other stuff? Bas, you fucking bloodhound.”

Bastien reached over Stiles to shove Ransom’s head playfully.

Stiles cleared his throat. “So, that just happened.” He tried not to sound freaked out and he was mostly successful, he thought. As attractive as his friends were (and boy things might have been different a couple of years ago—maybe) he wasn’t looking for either friends with benefits or a relationship. Derek had his head and heart all turned around and he wasn’t sure those feelings would change any time soon. Plus, you know. Small supernatural dependent on the way.

“Relax, you.” Ransom poked Stiles in his ribs, right where he was ticklish. Stiles squirmed with a nervous explosion of breath. “That was just a release of tension between friends.” She looked at Bastien for affirmation.

“That’s one way to look at it,” agreed Bas, “It can also be a way to scent pack-mates. We don’t have an Alpha to create traditional pack bonds so scent marking is an effective way to create a bond.”

“Okay,” Stiles said dubiously. “As long as you’re sure you don’t want all up on this.” He gestured at his sleep mussed self (ignoring the huge wet spot on the front of his pants-lalalala).

“If you weren’t mated already,” Bas said, his eyes somberly, “I would have a very hard time with my control.”

Stiles tangled his fingers together nervously, “Then why did Callum react that way to me? If I’m mated I mean.” He struggled to say those words. _Mated_. He couldn’t think too closely about what it meant without losing his composure. He hadn’t run with wolves for the better part of three years not to understand what that meant in some capacity. It hurt to remember the way Derek had pulled away from him the morning after. In fact, _hurt_ didn’t even come close to describing the way the emptiness burned in his chest. 

Bastien’s lips thinned. “It could be a combination of things. I can’t begin to understand what was going on in his head since a mating bite normally repels other suitors. If I had to guess, maybe it was your . . . unexpectedly fertile state that made Callum react in a feral manner.”

A shudder passed through Stiles.

“We’ll make sure to keep Callum away,” Ransom said firmly.

“I’m waiting for Tracy to return my call,” Bastien added. “His second was out of line to approach you unprovoked like that.”

Bas put his arm around Stiles’ shoulder to give him a comforting squeeze.

“My mother is downstairs making pancakes,” Bas announced. “We should probably wash up.” His lips twitched as he looked down at his chest, and then at Stiles’ boxers meaningfully. His slim dark brow arched playfully.

Stiles groaned, his face burning hot. “Oh god.” He slapped his hand over his eyes.

“Chocolate chip?” Ransom perked up, her dark hair curling across her forehead in sweaty curls.

Shrugging with an enigmatic smirk, Bastien rolled out of the bed smoothly.

“I’m going to marry your mother,” Ransom said firmly. “She makes _the_ best pancakes.”

The last to get out of bed, Stiles wondered how this was now his life.

“Keep Ransom away from my food,” Stiles grumbled.

There was a sad whimper and a remorseful, “Sorry Stiles,” but he revealed there were no hard feelings by giving her a very fond middle finger. Her familiar cackle echoed all the way down the landing.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a harsh voice cut through the silence of the Stilinski kitchen.

The Sheriff paused in the middle of raising a glass to his lips. His eyes rose in surprise to meet those of Melissa’s as she stalked forward with her jaw set furiously.

He barely had a chance to realize his long-time friend was in his house unannounced at 11:00 at night before she was smacking the half-filled tumbler from his slack grip. It crashed to the floor with a loud shatter, jolting him from his shocked stupor.

“Mel!” He protested. “What--?!”

Her finger was shaking as she jabbed it an inch from his nose. “Janek Przemysław Stilinski you do not get to hide behind a bottle of Jack Daniels while your son is out there god knows where!”

Melissa’s curly hair hung around her enraged face like an avenging angel’s halo. She was pissed.

But as her accusatory eyes and exact pronunciation of his birth name pierced the fog of John’s despair, a lick of anger began to curl up his spine in reaction.

“I’ve done everything I can to find Stiles!” John found himself raising his voice, he hated the way it shook, “My son is just _gone_ , Melissa! He doesn’t want to come home.”

If he was looking for sympathy he didn’t get it. Melissa’s lips tightened. She stabbed him in the chest with her fingers, “What, you think he wants to come home to see you like _this?!_ Half way through a bottle of whiskey? I don’t blame Stiles for leaving, John! Not if this is what he has to come home to!”

He stared open mouthed as Melissa let him have it. Her hard gaze didn’t soften so much as perhaps gain a speck of sympathy. “Listen. When Stiles comes home, we all need to show him that we regret doing the things that pushed him away. This?! This is a big one.”

John’s eyes dropped to the glass smashed on the linoleum floor. He felt sick.

“I never wanted to point fingers, because lord knows I’m not perfect and as much as I love my son—” Melissa huffed a humorless laugh, “there are some things I wish I’d been around to smack into his thick skull—but you basically left your child to take care of himself after Claudia died and it didn’t get much easier for him even after you quit going to bed drunk every night.”

John couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes.

“Because of Theo, and yes also Scott, I admit it; you punished Stiles for doing his best to be the self-sufficient and independently thinking young man he raised himself to be. That boy was always thirsty for your praise. He loved you _fiercely!_ ”

“Mel,” John begged her with a rough voice. He didn’t want to hear any more.

“Even after the lies were revealed, you didn’t clear the air with your son. Maybe out of some sullen embarrassment? I don’t know--?!” Melissa raised her arms in exasperation. “But you acted like a child.”

John’s shoulders slumped. “I know.”

“You can’t do this!” Melissa swept her arm out to encompass the whiskey bottle on the kitchen table and the smashed tumbler on the floor. “If we don’t learn from our mistakes, we won’t get a second chance!”

“I know!” John barked. Then softer, “I know goddamn it.” He sagged into a chair. “I just . . . I don’t know where to start.”

Melissa was painfully silent as she stared at his defeated form. He looked up questioningly when she pulled something from a pocket in her scrubs. “There’s a meeting this Wednesday. You’re going. I know this because I’m driving you there.”

John took the business card from her fingers, swallowing hard when he recognized the AA logo on the front. He didn’t bother arguing how he was the Sheriff and had to keep up appearances, or how he stopped drinking by himself before, he knew he didn’t have an excuse more important than his son. He nodded once in acknowledgment.  

“Okay.” Melissa breathed. She looked tired now that her fury was spent. She spun around and left, locking the front door behind her.

As she crossed the street to where she left her car, she focused her eyes on the dark smear of trees. “Thank you for letting me know he was drinking again,” she said quietly, “I’ll do everything I can to get him to stop.”

Before she started her car she added, “Good night Derek.”

The carefully observant crimson eyes retreated further back into the greenbelt as she drove away.

 

Danny had a free period and decided it had been about a week since he’d checked in on Stiles. He grabbed his laptop and got comfortable on his bed. He checked a couple of emails from professors while he waited for his monitoring program to finish running his tailored security system checks. He’d learned the hard way not to leave his data vulnerable to lower level FBI hackers. He didn’t want to be slapped with a felony or end up forcefully recruited.

When he was satisfied it was safe to check what his bots had on Stilinski, Danny quickly scanned the list of purchases he’d uncovered and the few security cam recordings Stiles had been caught on. Strangely there were fewer of them this time around, like Stiles was avoiding going out in public the last two weeks.

Danny fingered his lips thoughtfully. Nothing really stood out. Same kind of activity as before. Well, he shrugged, that was a good thing.

As before, Stiles’ cellphone was barely touched. But when Danny looked at the roommates, he sat forward making a little sound of curiosity. Olive Belikov, or as she apparently called herself ‘Ransom’ had a few photo’s uploaded since last night. He clicked on them.

And blinked.

_What._

The first picture was Stiles sitting in a chair awkwardly leaning backwards with his head over the sink as a dark haired girl straddled his legs, her hands spearing his wet looking hair. It looked like a typical Stiles picture. His wide mouth was in mid yelp, arms thrown out as though he was trying to get out from under her.

This alone was nothing alarming. It was very domestic and normal.

The second series of pictures made Danny tilt his head to the side, eyes narrowing. Stiles was standing in this one, looking unimpressed with the photographer—a pink plastic shower cap on his head. Danny would have smirked at the sight if it wasn’t for way his eyes were drawn to the odd way Stiles’ t-shirt was drawn tightly across his abdomen. The next couple of pics that followed were of Stiles and his roommate dipping their pizza slices into a jar of peanut butter. It was clear that whoever was behind the camera thought it was as disgusting as Danny found it to look.

The grossed-out grimace on his face dropped as the last picture came on screen. It was of Stiles and a man that Danny hadn’t seen before. If it wasn’t for the eye-flare that obscured most of his face, Danny was certain the formation of the perfect golden six-pack, and messy golden hair, that this werewolf was another fine male specimen.

That Stiles seemed to have fallen asleep against said Adonis’ shoulder, mouth wide open in a obvious snore wasn’t the cause of Danny’s dismay. It was the way Stiles’ limp hands draped over the very pregnant looking belly that peeked out from the ridden-up Blink 182 t-shirt.

“Oh shit,” Danny muttered breathlessly, blindly scrabbling for his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to end this with the Stiles/Bas/Ransom section but guys, I couldn't!! So there ya go. A little extra. 
> 
> Bas is a fucking gift to were-kind but Stiles is in love with Derek, nothing beyond extremely close friendship is gonna happen. Naughty close encounter wanking notwithstanding. :P Sterek ftw. Also, Derek will not be pleased with the Reynard Pack's manner of 'unity'. *snicker*
> 
> Polish translation of endearment - my very little sweetheart
> 
> Also, if you feel the groove you can leave donations to the author here for her continued feeding: paypal.me/heyoka A little more background is available on my tumblr homepg. 
> 
> Loves


	14. Cluster F*ck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song to read by: Try - P!nk
> 
> Thank you goes out to Baker & Green you know what for. Hugs!!
> 
> This came out later than I was planning and less than I wanted but what that translates to hopefully is another chapter sooner.

“This had better be good, I was in the middle of recording my Nonlinear Dynamics presentation,” huffed Lydia as she pushed past Danny.

Danny made sure they were alone before locking the door behind her.

Lydia’s eyebrow arched right into the stratosphere as he slipped a sock over the door handle. “Did you just--?!”

“We can’t be interrupted,” Danny said shortly, brushing past her shoulder. He headed straight for his computer.

Lydia’s breath caught. “Danny--?” There was so much in the way she spoke his name. _You’re scaring me! Is this about Stiles? What’s going on?_

Luckily, he heard what was left unsaid. He spared her a glance. “You need to see this.”

Lydia sat down in Danny’s desk chair. She glanced at him hesitantly, “Is Stiles okay?” It wasn’t like her to show vulnerability like this but Danny’s secretive actions were throwing her composure out the window.

“He’s . . . okay.” Danny jutted his chin towards the computer screen. “But I think maybe _someone_ was leaving something out about why Stiles left Beacon Hills.” He sounded accusing.

Frowning Lydia returned her attention to the open files on his computer screen. She pulled up the foremost file.

The first picture of Stiles getting his hair dyed made her lips quirk upwards almost despite herself. It was good to see him doing something so normal. The following pictures were relatively domestic, hinting at his new friends and Lydia glanced at Danny curiously wondering what had was in these pictures that had possessed the normally stoic boy to call her in near panic.

But as she skimmed through the pictures, her brows began to furrow as her brilliant mind began to pick up some curious clues. The final picture of Stiles sprawled out asleep, with his hand cradling a swollen belly answered why Danny had flipped out. Lydia wasn’t sure if what she was looking at was real. She blinked as if to clear her eyes. _That’s a baby bump,_ she realized with a jolt.

“I had these from before.” Danny said, rubbing his mouth nervously. He handed her a print out of what looked like a list of purchases.

Maternity purchases.

“I didn’t know what to make of it.” He admitted. “I thought at first that Stiles had either knocked someone up, or his roommate was pregnant. But then . . .”

Lydia returned her shocked gaze back to the picture of Stiles. “But then this picture,” she finished for him. Her mouth had gone dry.

Danny nodded.

Oh, oh god. _Stiles._

“So uh,” Danny cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Is that a thing that can happen? With werewolves?”

Lydia’s head whipped around. “You know?” She blurted out before she could stop herself. She blamed it on the shock.

“Uh, yeah.” Danny’s dark eyes were hooded with accusation, “Stiles filled me in.”

Lydia stared hard at him.

Danny returned the interrogative glare. “So? Werewolves can they make babies with, uh, guys?”

She cut her head side to side in a sharp negative, “No. There was nothing in the research about that and I’m sure someone would have mentioned it at some point.” Although now, Lydia had to wonder.

Danny sagged onto the side of his bed, his elbows braced on his thighs. “I almost called Ethan.”

Lydia’s breath hissed softly in sympathy. She knew their breakup still bothered Danny. “I can’t see how that would have went over well.”

He huffed out a bitter laugh, “No.”

Lydia found her eyes drawn back like a magnet to the picture of Stiles with his hand on his belly. “It might not be a werewolf,” she murmured to herself, “could be a spell, maybe.”

“Pretty sure it’s a werewolf,” Danny didn’t allow her denial, “one of the midwives is a were.”

 **That** had her attention.

“What?!”

With a tired sigh, Danny reached past her and poked the face on the picture next to Stiles. Lydia had been so fixed on Stiles’ belly she hadn’t even noticed the eye-glare (she was more acclimatized to werewolves than she thought).

Lydia rolled her lip between her teeth. This was so not good. That meant . . .

“Oh god, how am I going to keep this from Derek?” She muttered to herself.

“Ugh, Stilinski.” Danny groaned. “I _knew_ it. And why are _you_ hiding it from NotMiguel? Is he abusive?” He found himself pressing his fingers against his legs in an attempt not to curl them into fists.

Her eyebrows raised at the name Danny had for Derek. “No, you idiot. If Derek hears about this he’ll tear through anything in his way to get to Stiles and make a giant boob of himself. He’s already screwed up royally by being his usual self-denying dumbass.”

It was Danny’s turn to lift his eyebrows.

“Is that why Stiles ran?”

Lydia’s shoulders drooped, “Not exclusively. He had more reasons than that to give up on Beacon Hills.”

“Maybe contacting him isn’t a good idea then,” Danny said dubiously, “Especially—,” he threw his hand towards the monitor, “like that.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she hauled her little purse into her lap decisively. “I can’t think. I need a pumpkin spice latte before I make a decision like this. You’re buying.”

“I’m buying--?!” Danny scoffed.

“Well I’m paying you, so technically, _I’m_ buying.” Lydia flipped her auburn hair over her shoulder.

Knowing that arguing was pointless, Danny just sighed and grabbed his wallet. Secretly he was invested in hearing what Lydia decided to do about Stiles. Against his better judgement he was being drawn into the crazy supernatural drama he’d managed to stay out of his entire High School career.

But first.

Lattes.

 

The sudden peal of laughter broke Stile’s concentration and he wobbled dangerously from where he was balanced on his hands and knees. It was not surprising that his center of gravity was now easily upset. A warm hand on his shoulder steadied him.

“Ransom,” Bastien’s rarely heard stern voice spoke up, “Not right now, we’re busy.”

“I can see that,” Ransom replied, her voice warm with laughter, she was barely chastened.

Stiles could feel the red tide of embarrassment spreading over his ears and down his face. He held his position despite the humiliation of being caught. Bastien’s gentle hands had not yet given him the signal yet to break the pose.

“If you needed exercise Sparky, I could teach you some Tae Bo or Krav Maga,” Ransom bent over, looking at him upside down, her black bangs dropping into her eyes. “Although the downward dog is doing things for your butt. I can see why Bas talked you into this.”

Stiles huffed a snort. Yes because his gangly, sweaty, _pregnant_ , male body was irresistible. Not like casually beautiful Bastien over there. With his stupid sexy tousled blond hair and those lean golden muscles that moved into Yoga poses with ridiculous ease. His eyes glazed over as Bas unconsciously revealed a sliver of tanned midriff, _mmm, sexy innie belly button . . ._

Bastien let out a soft growl. “It’s _Marjariasana_ _Svanasana_ not downward dog. And Stiles needs a _gentle_ activity, his blood pressure is higher than normal. Probably because of the stress he’s under.”

Stiles pressed his lips together against the urge to point out that Nanananawhatever was Dog Tilt pose, knowing that Bastien was only trying to get Ransom to stop teasing them out of concern for his health. He ignored the part about the stress. No stress here. Nope. None.

At the news of Stiles blood pressure, Ransom curled her lips in concern. “Stiles?” She said uncertainly.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her grumpily. “Bas is just doing his job being an overprotective midwolf.”

“You need to take it easy,” Bas sighed. “Stiles, your body is doing something extraordinary.”

He tried not to bristle at the words. He didn’t want to be obvious how his emotions were all over the board today. It was hard, especially when he wanted to snap that he didn’t want to be doing anything extraordinary. He wanted to be—his eyes shifted away from his friends gazes. Didn’t matter, in the end he didn’t really get a choice. He inhaled slowly and sat back on his heels. Bastien handed him a cool glass of water. “It’s not like I’m running marathons,” Stiles said, carefully neutral. “I’m just working with Ransom a few days a week.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Bastien agreed with a searching look, as if he could sense something going on behind Stiles’ whiskey eyes. “It’s probably good to be doing something for as long as you can. We just need to be careful with the threat from Callum.”

Stiles tensed. “Has he contacted you?”

Bastien shook his head, “No, but. I’ve been picking up a strange scent around the neighborhood. I don’t like what that might mean.”

Ransom let out a hum, “I have some friends that can watch the house for us at night.”

There was a loaded look between Ransom and Bastien over Stiles head. It was practically a whole conversation. He found himself completely left out. “Um, hello?”

“Are you sure?” Bastien said warily. His eyes flashed briefly golden.

“It would only be the ones that have donors,” Ransom reassured him nebulously. She shrugged. “It will keep werewolves away.

“I’m fully aware,” Bastien’s voice was dry.

“You know who’s not fully aware?” Stiles broke in exasperated, “Me! I’m not fully aware. What the hell are you two talking about?”

Ransom looked at him, “Remember my friend Lou?”

Stiles sputtered, “Zombie Lou?”

She nodded with a hesitant smile.

Zombie Lou, who guarded a Coven of . . .

“Vampires?” Stiles sputtered. “You want Vampires to guard us. At night. When we’re asleep. Vulnerable, and asleep.”

She waited until Stiles took a breath. “They are friends of mine.”

There was a story there, Stiles filed that away for later. Although not much later, his curiosity was at its peak. “So how does that work?”

Ransom shook her hair back off her shoulders, “The house is warded, Stiles. You know that.”

Stiles raised his arms, “I don’t know anything about _vampires_ Ran!” He flapped his hands at her hysterically.

She pursed her lips. “Well, it’s true a vampire can’t enter someone’s home uninvited, and this house is warded against those who wish the occupants harm.” She brushed a finger down the black and red _veve_ tattoos on her arm in demonstration. They and other _veve_ previously hidden in the walls and floor around them shimmered gold in response.

Stiles blinked mesmerized. It was one thing for his spark to feel the background hum of something _other_ , but to see it plainly was another. He had his own wards in his upstairs space, but he’d never seen Ransom’s. He swallowed, feeling a little more humble towards his new home.

“Remember the powder I gave you for your pouch?” She asked him suddenly.

Stiles blinked at her, reaching unconsciously for the small leather pouch that hung underneath his throat. “Yeah--?”

“It was brick dust, for protection, to repel unwanted forces,” Ransom reminded him, “The whole house is practically seeped in brick dust and salt for the same reason.” She shrugged with a wry grin. “I’m a Witch. It’s not always a safe profession.”

Stiles nodded. Not to mention she used to live alone. Well, with Gansey.

Bastian still sat on the floor, his arm draped loosely over one of his folded legs, “I’m very glad we’re friends,” he felt the need to announce with a relaxed grin and sparkling eyes.

Ugh. Cinnamon bun.

“Me too,” Ransom said, rocking on her toes. She quirked her head at Stiles, “So can you do that pose again so I can get a good picture of your ass?” She pulled out her phone with a waggle.

Stiles dropped his head. So much for that moment. He peered up at her through his drooping bangs, “Yeah, sure.”  It was clear she was surprised at his answer. “It’s only fair, after all I did get a good one of you this morning putting on your mascara.” He demonstrated her face, dropping his mouth open and stretched out his face grotesquely.

Her outraged screech followed Stiles’ retreating back as beat it for Bastien’s safe harbor chanting, “Save me, save me, save the pregnant dude--!!!”

 

“This is not quite what I imagined when you said you wanted to go out for coffee,” Danny grumbled.

Lydia shoved her carryon in his chest, “Yeah well, Beacon Hills has a better coffee shop anyway.”

They were practically racing for the gate trying to make the flight. Danny wondered how he’d went from catching up on homework, to panicked call to Lydia to cross-continental flight. Then again, he really shouldn’t be. He sighed inwardly. How was it that he’d managed to avoid this all through high-school only to get caught up now?

“Danny!” Lydia’s shrill voice flagellated him.

He picked it up to a jog. How the hell was she running in those shoes?

 

“It’s impressive,” Chris said, holding his mug of coffee.

“Thank you,” Derek said, trying not to sound curt. For all the work they had accomplished with each other, and come so far, far enough to become _pack_ , he still found it difficult to let his final walls down around the hunter.

They were standing just outside the line of trees, surveying the work site as the construction crew milled about in the crisp early morning air.

“Basement?” Chris enquired.

He didn’t have to elaborate, Derek knew what he was referring to. He nodded. “Unfinished. I told the crew we were probably add a wine cellar at a later date.”

The lines deepened around Chris’ eyes. It was his version of a smile. “Good. We should be able to do the expansion ourselves after they leave.”

Derek lifted his own mug to his lips. They had discussed what they wanted to add to the pack house basement that they couldn’t hire a regular construction crew for that. Couldn’t trust that someone outside the pack would gossip that the house deep in the preserve had the equivalent of a nuclear bunker. Chris needed somewhere secure to put his weaponry, the wolves needed a safe room for the full moon, and if they’d learned anything from the past; an escape route never hurt anyone.

He caught Chris giving him the side eye. He lifted a brow questioningly.

“You’re looking a bit . . . woodsy there Derek. Need a break away from the site for a bit?”

The Hunter was referring to how the Alpha was letting his facial scruff go a bit wild while living on the construction site. Derek quirked his lips. “I’m roughing it.”

“You look the part,” Chris agreed, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Derek let out a harmless growl. “It helps keep the curious away.”

Chris nodded, a quirk to his lips.

It wasn’t just that he was living out of a glorified tent, Derek didn’t have the urge to bother with grooming. Other than checking in on, and helping with, the construction of the new Hale house, he was taking the rest of his down time to seek out the quiet of the forest. There was a lot he had to think about.

Before she left, Lydia had signed him up for _mandatory_ therapy sessions, once a week. It was one of her ultimatums. She would help him ‘sort his maudlin bullshit out’ and he would help her look further into her Banshee heritage.

Dr. Malick, his therapist, as much as Derek loathed to admit it, had made some really good points and it had kind of turned him on his ear. He was glad that he had the opportunity for privacy to allow for those shattering moments of introspection. The therapist came recommended by Deaton, and was a former emissary, now retired. He was an ocean of calm; though thankfully he employed more of a sense of humor than the former Hale emissary.

“I have to say, it’s bigger than I imagined.”

At that Derek smirked, “Trust me, doesn’t matter how big the house ends up. We’re going to need the space.”

Chris’ lips curled in a rare smile, “Touché.”

“Heard from Isaac?”

The hunter nodded, “He’s doing well, getting a little better with his French this year. He should be here next month to help out for a bit.”

Derek felt pleased at the news. It would be good to have Isaac back again, even if only for a little while. The young man still had school in France, but he was practically Argent’s protégé now, not to mention adopted son. He was happy for them. Both men had lost so much. They were fortunate to find understanding and support in each other. He could only hope for a similar happy ending for himself.

“No word on Peter?” Chris asked him this time.

Derek grimaced. “No. We won’t likely find any either. Not unless he chooses to let us. He’s particularly adept at falling through the cracks.” He cracked his neck. “I can say with some certainty that he is no longer in Beacon Hills.”

“Oh?”

Derek kept his eyes firmly on his partially constructed home. “Pack bond,” he said unenthusiastically. “I’d know if he were nearby at least. Even if the bond is—” He shrugged.

“Unstable?” Chris offered.

Derek snorted. That was a good way to describe Peter.

Because Peter was his Uncle, Derek would never completely get rid of their familial pack bond. It could weaken with distance or with neglect but because of the blood they shared some remnant of the bond would remain no matter what.

“Well, I should head back in town. Stilinski wants me to look over some case files,” Chris mentioned, putting his empty mug down on the crate that served as Derek’s table. He gestured at the blueprints that were pinned to the side of the tent flap, “Save me the room over the garage.”

“You sure?” Derek’s brows rose in surprise.

Chris nodded, “It’s plenty big and I don’t need a walk in closet, like Lydia.” Both men fought back grins. “I’m a bachelor and I’ll be travelling a bit. This will be plenty homey enough.”

Derek was grateful. At least there would be no power plays over who got what room. No one wanted to fight Lydia for the ground suite. There were a few rooms Isaac and Cora could take their pick from. Stiles—

He mentally gave his head a shake, “Right. Well if you’re coming back out later you can pick up the order from the Hardware store. I had a few things on special order.”

Giving a short nod, Chris raised his hand in farewell.

Derek listened to the sound of Chris’ Hummer fade down the road. He turned back his back to the construction and examined the blueprints to the home. It was coming together faster than he expected. The roof was already up, the walls were being insulated. What had only been an idea only two short months ago was already becoming reality. He and Lydia were making it happen. They were bringing the Hale Pack back to life.

He felt the stirrings of hope in his chest. It meant the world to him, to have a pack supporting him again. They may be apart most of the time but when it really mattered, they were there for each other. If he could have this . . . maybe—

Derek ran a hand through his unkempt hair. Huh. It _was_ getting longer.

Just then his phone vibrated in his back pocket, he slapped at his butt cheek in surprise before fishing it out. He frowned as he looked at the id. “Lydia?” He answered.

“Hey Derek,” Lydia said breathlessly. “Uh, do you mind coming to pick us up at the Airport?”

“Airport?” Derek said dumbly. “What--? What Airport?”

“LAX?” Lydia said, sounding like she was holding her breath.

Something was wrong. Lydia wouldn’t have travelled all the way from Massachusetts on an unplanned trip without good reason. Derek’s fingers tightened around the phone until it creaked ominously. “You said us, Lydia. Who is with you?” He demanded, fighting against the urge to shift.

The banshee’s voice was deceptively light, that’s how he knew it was monumentally bad. “Danny’s with me,” She said cheerily.

_Stiles--!!_

“I’ll be there soon,” Derek snarled around sharp teeth. 


	15. Voluntary Apnea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen while you read: Evanescence - Going Under
> 
> Additional Tags: Suicidal Thoughts, Creepy Werewolves, Canon Level Violence, Bamf Lydia, General Trigger Warning (you have one? be safe and don't read)
> 
> I am up to 66,000 words give or take a few!! Holy Sh--doodle!! You guys this is amazing! I've got no end in sight. Or at least not ANY time soon. I know I'm slow but at least I'll be here for your first-born! You can name it after your favorite author! (Me!! You silly!!)
> 
> We are getting somewhere. Where? Some. Where. (some were?) :D
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

Late September in New Orleans was brutal for Stiles. He felt like he was covered in a sheen of sweat that stuck to everything; his clothes, his iced white chocolate mocha; the remnants of his peanut butter brownie; the air. . . Even showers were only helpful as long as he was standing under the cool spray. The relief only lasted until he wrapped himself in a towel and stepped back into the humidity.

He missed autumn in Beacon Hills. He missed going to get Pumpkin Spiced Latte’s with Lydia.

He looked on jealously as customers lined up behind Ransom to get the favored fall special. It wasn’t fair he couldn’t indulge. Well, it _was_. No caffeine meant no latte. The baby was more important than a fix. He sighed. No sex, no caffeine. This sucked.

Then again, when did he ever get what he wanted?

Ugh. He was so morose. He sipped sullenly on his mocha, his craving left unsatisfied.

“You look like someone kicked your puppy.” Ransom commented, blowing on her extra dark, dark, like black hole dark, coffee.

Stiles wrinkled his snub nose at her choice of words, “Pumpkin.” He whined.

His friend rolled her eyes, “Oh my god, you just ate a plantation worth of sugar. How can you still want anything else?”

He couldn’t really explain it was more of feeling homesick than the drink itself without sounding even more lame. Stiles’ shoulders drooped.

Ransom tilted her head, “Usually the peanut butter works,” she said thoughtfully, “You okay?”

He was tired. He missed . . . stuff. He was wearing a hoody in 86 degree weather because of his noticeable baby bump. Everyone had a pumpkin spice latte except for him. He had another crazy werewolf after him. And he wanted Derek.

Stiles clenched his jaw, refusing to let his eyes burn.

Ransom frowned. “Stiles?”

“Can we just go home now?” He said tiredly, “I think I need a nap.”

He tried to ignore her concern.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s go.”

Just as they were clearing the doorway, Stile’s neck prickled as though someone was watching him. He stiffened and looked over his shoulder.

Scanning the small café, nothing looked amiss. He frowned. The scar on his neck was itching faintly. His fingers twitched with the urge to slap over it but he resisted sullenly.

There was a familiar looking back sitting over by the window. His first reaction was to stiffen in alarm, his heart thumped hard with recognition. It was only for a split second but then he forced himself to relax, realizing his error. Feeling foolish and hypervigilant, Stiles let Ransom lead him out of the café by hand. He wanted to snort at himself. He _must_ be tired. He was starting to see things. Next up on seeing crazy for shits and giggles were pink elephants because there was no way in the seven levels of hell _Peter Hale_ would be caught wearing board shorts.

Stiles reclaimed his arm and followed Ransom down the sidewalk on their way to work.

 

The second tourist-y looking individual rejoined the one sitting in the window. He handed over the steaming mug of chamomile tea with a barely restrained scoff. The expression was half-hearted at best. His blue eyes were busy following the rapidly disappearing red hoodie around the corner.

“ _That_ was Stilinski?”

The oldest of the pair, tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Remarkable isn’t it?” His lips pressed together in contemplation. “We need to proceed with caution.”

Rearranging the mug handle so that it was facing him the way he liked it, Peter Hale began to dip his steeping teabag in the scalding water. “We can’t afford to screw up.” His voice possessed a subsonic rumble that indicated single-minded focus; the chilling tone of a predator.

His companion didn’t have anything to add. His cool blue eyes lingered pensively where the object of their conversation disappeared from sight.  

 

Lydia knew she was pushing her luck by insisting Derek wait until they were somewhere where they wouldn’t be interrupted or overheard. The furious Alpha werewolf’s control was visibly cracking and she had no wish to push him past the point of no return.

Although, that hair? Was he trying to look homeless on purpose?

She bit her lip against the scolding she wanted to give him. Later. She would find an electric razor, at least. There was no need to encourage stereotypes.

With a downshift that made Lydia and Danny wince in sympathy for the Camaro, (which Derek must have traded for the Toyota in order to save time) he spun the wheel and slammed hard on the brakes so that they skidded to a stop parallel to an abandoned picnic table at a quiet truck stop.

“Talk,” Derek snarled.

Lydia rolled her eyes and opened the passenger door. She helped Danny shakily fold himself out of the cramped backseat. She held out her hand for the laptop, normally her tall childhood friend barely let it out of his clutches but he was too busy trying to urge the blood back into his unsteady legs.

She sat at the dirty picnic table with a barely repressed shudder of disgust and set about getting the laptop ready.

“I’m sorry for the lack of warning Derek,” Lydia said honestly. She really was sorry. But knowing what they were about to show him, there was no amount of sympathy she could offer the Alpha that was going to make this any less a shock.

Danny had figured out what she was doing and with an indignant burst of noise shoved her down the bench until he was sitting in front of the monitor, tapping his passwords in with a flurry of fast fingers.

“This is about Stiles.” Derek practically growled.

Lydia glared at him unimpressed. “Obviously Derek. We didn’t fly down here to talk about Linear Algebra.” Her green eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m not telling you anything more until you calm down.”

“Uh—Lydia, I’m not sure--,” Danny hesitantly added when Derek’s growl deepened in threat. The Alpha’s eyes flashed a deep arterial red.

She stood her ground. In fact, she crossed her arms. “If you insist on acting like an out of control Beta, Derek, I’m not continuing to help you find Stiles. He doesn’t need your overgrown drama right now.”

Danny barely dared to breathe. The tension was so thick he could feel it prickling the hairs of his arms.

Finally, Derek seemed to shake himself. It almost seemed like he shrank. Danny supposed the man likely _did._

“Did you just make a backhanded comment about my appearance?” Derek asked Lydia incredulously. Danny jerked, _goddamn it Lydia! Are you trying to get us killed?_ He turned incredulous eyes on the red-head.

She sniffed. “It didn’t take you long to devolve without me around. You could use a trim.”

Derek peered at her like he wasn’t sure she was for real. Danny knew the feeling well.

The Alpha huffed. “What have you got?” He asked gruffly.

Lydia smirked, “That’s better.” She leaned into the older man’s space and after a blink of surprise, Derek pulled her in for a quick hug. He discretely rubbed his bristly cheek over the top of her head, marking her as pack. Lydia’s lips quirked privately in satisfaction. She surprised him even further by lifting up onto her tippy toes and bumping her head under his chin in return.

She didn’t wait for his response, knowing she likely caught the normally aloof Alpha off guard with her reciprocal scenting. Lydia spun around and returned to Danny’s side.

“Okay, so we knew that Danny had Stiles’ location.” Lydia began.

Derek’s glare in Danny’s direction did not go unnoticed. “Yes. We did.”

Danny tried not to cower. He was sure he mostly succeeded. He cleared his throat, “I wanted to protect Stiles’ interests.” He explained. “Stiles ran for a reason. Until he showed signs otherwise, I had no obligation to reveal his new home. He’s legally an adult.”

Derek was about to respond hotly but saw the expression on Lydia’s face. He clenched his fists. She answered for him.

“We know Stiles’ is legally an adult with regards to living on his own. It was the circumstances surrounding his disappearance that had us all so concerned,” Lydia explained. “I know your understanding of werewolf packs is relatively new Danny, but to sum it up, being in a pack is like being in a very close family. Stiles and I, even Derek were supposed to be in Scott’s pack but he screwed up. Big time.”

“Scott--? Scott McCall? Lacrosse Co-Captain.” Danny said disbelievingly. “Stilinski’s McCall?”

Lydia winced. “Yeah. Scott . . . turned Stiles away at a really bad time. I was in the hospital so I wasn’t there for him. Stiles was . . . he was all alone.”

Danny looked between her and Derek. “So what happened with you? Are you his boyfriend?”

For a moment, Derek looked devastated. Danny was taken aback. But then the expression was wiped clear from his face. “I didn’t know anything that was going on with Scott, or anything else. I thought that I was—doing Stiles a favor by not getting close. I made a mistake.” The roughness of Derek’s voice betrayed his turbulent emotion.

Danny swallowed. “You.” He switched his gaze to Lydia. “Did he--?” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. _Was Hale Stile’s baby daddy?_

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Without asking for details—and I don’t want any, thanks. I’m positive the answer is yes, Danny. They fucked.”

Danny coughed in embarrassment.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Derek retorted angrily.

“You’re going to want to sit down Derek.” Lydia said evenly.

Out of sheer Alpha stubbornness Derek remained standing. Danny shrugged and finished pulling up the most recent pictures he had of Stiles. He then leaned out of the way. He wasn’t stupid enough to be anywhere near any possible claws or teeth.

There was silence for a long drawn out moment as Derek looked his fill of the first full-color photo of Stiles since his disappearance. “ _Stiles_ ,” he breathed, not realizing he spoke the name out loud.

Seeing that Derek wasn’t about to move any time soon, Danny clicked over to the next picture. The one with Stiles in the shower cap.

“I—I don’t understand.” Derek said, sounding lost. His eyes were busy hungrily drinking up the sight of Stiles unhurt and clearly being cared for. The latter part smarted, but who was he to complain?

Lydia pressed her lips together, remaining silent.

Then they came to the last picture.

Derek began to growl at the clear sign of another werewolf so close to Stiles. Did he join another pack? That was—that hurt. The sharp pain in his chest that accompanied that thought was interrupted by Lydia’s fingers pressing insistently on his forearm. Her touch made him refocus on the picture. He blinked in confusion. What was he looking at?

Stiles was loose-limbed in slumber, practically sagging against the unknown werewolf. But Stiles long fingers were protectively draped over his rounded belly. Derek’s breath hitched. _What?_

“He’s pregnant, Derek.” Lydia said gently.

Derek staggered back from the picnic table. “Is this a joke?” He snarled, feeling betrayed.

Danny shook his head, making sure to keep his eyes lowered. “I’ve got proof. Receipts. Footage with his midwife.” He gestured at the picture on the screen, “That guy? The werewolf? He’s one of Stile’s midwives. He has two apparently.”

Derek found it hard to breathe. Nothing made sense.

“I know I’m a supernatural creature, but last I knew in the hundreds of years of history of my kind no male has ever gotten another male pregnant. Human or Werewolf.” Derek pointed out shakily. Despite his words, his eyes kept being drawn to the photo of Stiles. _Was it true?_ Did he and Stiles . . . make a baby?

Lydia pursed her lips with a shrug, “Yeah but there’s never been a Werewolf and a Stiles before.”

There was so much truth to that comment. Derek couldn’t refute it.

He began to pant in distress the longer he stared at the photo.

If it was true. Not only did he push away his _mate . . ._

“Hey—hey Derek!” Lydia was trying to get his attention. He reluctantly pulled his eyes from the screen to look at the Banshee.

“I have—I have to go—” Derek didn’t realize he was half-shifted and whining. His mate was _pregnant_. He had to go to him. He had to find him and make sure he and the baby were _safe!_

Lydia could see her Alpha was tensing up to run. She guessed his instincts had been kicked into overdrive but they couldn’t afford to waste time chasing down a half-feral Alpha werewolf. She allowed her power to swell and focus in her voice, “ **Derek. Sit down**.”

The Alpha paused. He shuddered as he fought against his own instincts. “Stiles--” He forced out between elongating teeth.

“You don’t know where he is.” Lydia said steadily, “You don’t want to waste time running blindly through all 50 States looking for him do you?”

She unfortunately didn’t mean to draw his attention back to Danny.

“No. I don’t,” Derek snarled, taking a step forward. “ _You_ know where he is! Tell me!!”

Danny _eeped_ fearfully and found himself climbing backwards over the picnic table as the Alpha advanced.

Lydia threw out her arm, catching Derek by the chest. She was lucky her arm wasn’t ripped off at the socket. Since she was pack, or more specifically, because she was _Lydia_ , Derek allowed her to hold him back. His eyes, though, tracked Danny’s retreat with narrowed crimson intent.

“You can’t go get Stiles like this, Derek.” Lydia said quietly. “You need to think carefully about what we do next. Barging in after he’s been gone almost three months will have unpredictable consequences. If you want him back we need to _think_.”

He knew she made sense. But every instinct was screaming at him to find Stiles. He’d wanted to from the moment he found out the boy had left Beacon Hills. But now. _God._ He had so much to make up for. He hadn’t known until now exactly how much. Would he ever stop fucking up other people’s lives?

Derek made a strangled noise. “Fine. Fine, okay.”  He raised his hands as a sign of defeat.

“I’ll tell you where he is as soon as you have a reasonable plan,” Danny said shakily. He kept the picnic table between them as a buffer. “ _This_ kind of reaction? Can’t happen in front of a pregnant, uh, guy.”

Derek’s shoulders fell a fraction. He hated to admit it, but the kid was right. He couldn’t lose his control around Stiles. Not just because of what he’d just found out, but because he needed to prove to Stiles that he was worthy of loving him.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Lydia offered, intuitively knowing what Derek was thinking about. “You’ve had a pretty big shock. Don’t let this set you back.”

Bracing himself, Derek nodded. He had to. He had to do this, for Stiles. No one had ever done for him, the things that Stiles had done without expectation. The remarkable young man had stood up for him even when they weren’t friends, saved his life countless times, become his _anchor_ when there were not many people in the world he could tolerate, let alone trust. Stiles was more to him than a friend, more to him than an anchor, but because of his own fears and his own self-hatred he’d failed to show Stiles that. He wouldn’t fail a second time.

“Where do we start?” Derek said grimly.

Lydia smiled.

 

Stiles was in his bedroom back home, sitting in the middle of his old twin bed. He found himself looking around with a small frown as he took in his surroundings. They were familiar but _wrong_ somehow.

What was he doing here?

He wasn’t supposed to be here—was he? He had been somewhere . . . else. Stiles looked at his hands lying limply in his lap. Same old hands, long and gawky, just like the rest of him. He blinked up at his room again, trying to figure out the mystery of why he felt like he was _missing_ something.

Slowly he uncurled himself, setting the leather jacket to the side and got to his feet. He took the few steps to his door and tried the handle and found it locked. He gave it a testing jiggle but it didn’t budge. Why was his door locked?

“Dad--?” He called out hesitantly.

There was no answer. No sound came from the other side to indicate anyone else was home.

His father had never locked him in his room before. What had he done to merit this kind of punishment? Stiles backed away from the door, his stomach dropping with unnamed terror. Had he found out about--?

Stiles frowned. Found out about—?

What didn’t he want his dad to find out?

As he turned in place, he began to notice the state of his room. Most glaringly was the amount of dust on his possessions. Even his keyboard had a neglectful film of dust over its surface. That wasn’t right—surely he used his computer. Even if he was grounded— _especially_ if he was grounded.

His heart began to pound. Something wasn’t right. It was almost like his room hadn’t been lived in in months. Maybe longer.

But he was _here!_ Right?

“Dad?!” Stiles yelled again, his voice cracking along with his nerves.

He pressed his shaking fingers to his lips. “M-mom?” He whispered helplessly.

Stiles hurriedly crawled back onto his bed and tugged the leather jacket to his chest tightly. His breath was wheezing from his lips as a panic attack bore down on him. The last thing he remembered—was—was Derek. But he didn’t want to think about him. He squeezed his eyes shut. There were other memories too, other faces, but those just belonged to a pleasant dream. Where else would he have come up with friends that were there for him unconditionally? The memory of their faces was already fading. His breath sobbed out hopelessly.

He cradled his head in his arms.

_“I wasn’t prepared to lose another pack mate,” Derek’s memory explained in that damnable earnest voice of his, “I guess it got away from me. I apologize for taking advantage of you like that.”_

“No.” Sobbed Stiles. “Don’t do this to me. I can’t—Derek—!”

“I apologize for my nephew, Stiles,” a familiar voice mocked. Stiles lifted his head sharply to see Peter Hale standing by his window, a small squirming bundle held in the crook of one arm. “I had thought highly of you, but apparently you were taken in by Derek’s brooding hero act. Pity.”

Stiles eyes were drawn to the bundle in Peter’s arms. That was his. He knew it deep inside himself. It was wrong that Peter had it.

“Give it back,” He said hurriedly.

Peter tched, “Too late Stiles. The baby is mine.”

Baby?

With a sudden lurch of memory returning, Stiles remembered being pregnant. His mouth opened wide in an agonized scream as Peter ducked out his bedroom window. “ **NO!!** ”

He stumbled from the bed, reaching desperately for the open window only to be hauled back by an unexpected force. He struggled against the impossibly strong hands gripping his shoulders, dragging him back to the bed.

Throwing his arms, his legs, his head—everything he had in a desperate bid to catch up with Peter and _his baby--!_ Stiles growled in agonized frustration as his unknown captor finally picked him up effortlessly.

“It will all be okay, Stiles. You’ll see.” Callum informed him confidently. “I will be a much better mate!”

“NO—

 

\--OH!” Stiles gasped sharply. He blinked in confusion at the lazily spiraling seagull skeleton hanging from the ceiling before slumping down on the mattress. _A nightmare_.

He couldn’t help running his hands over his swollen belly in order to reassure himself that it had just been a horrible dream. There was no Peter. The baby was still safe. Callum was still a douche but not anywhere nearby and he was in New Orleans in Ransom’s magically fortified house, not locked in his childhood bedroom.

It took a while to convince his heart rate though.

His lower back was aching so Stiles awkwardly rolled over onto his side to relieve the pressure. Even though he’d just woken up from the bitch of all bad dreams he couldn’t quite shake a lingering unease. That was too close to the real thing.

He managed most days to forcibly block Derek from his mind. It was damn hard, what with a living, physical reminder lodging under his ribs but Stiles was making his case for serious denial. Before leaving Beacon Hills it had been maddeningly impossible. Everything reminded him of the Alpha werewolf. It had almost driven him insane. Add that to what he’d already been dealing with, with his Dad, with Scott and Theo . . . the drive to run had been too strong.

Stiles was feeling a little bit of that despair again now. He just wanted to sink into his bed and never get out. He breathed out a thick sigh.

Being here . . . was nice. He really cared about Ransom and Bastien. But underneath it all he still felt like he was going through the motions. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to feel _empty_ like this.

He pressed his lips together tightly against the hitch in his breath. His chest ached.

His eyes unwillingly strayed to his backpack which sagged against the wall. In one of the front pockets, he knew nestled his abandoned bottle of Adderall. There were enough pills left to do the trick. If he wanted to make sure, he could just—

A strange fluttering sensation on the inside of his belly distracted him from his thoughts. His breath caught. Was that--? He pressed the heel of his palm against the part of his abdomen where the odd tumbling feeling happened. It could have been a muscle twitch—no there it was again!

Stiles couldn’t believe he was feeling the baby move for the first time. Suddenly filled with emotion, he curled around himself, choking back sobs. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He wept, rubbing his rounded belly almost obsessively. “I would never hurt you, _kochanie_ , I’m sorry!” Stiles pressed his fingers to his mouth to silence the pained cries that wanted out. “I promise I will . . .” He swallowed past an unforgiving lump, “If I can’t—I—promise I’ll make sure you are safe with your Alpha first. Okay?”

He must have cried himself back into an exhausted sleep because the next thing he knew he was being gently shaken awake. He blinked up in confusion at Sophie who was staring down at him in fond concern.

“Stiles?”

“Y-yeah?” He was surprised at the rough quality of his voice. Rubbing the crust from his eyes, Stiles clumsily flailed his way to a sitting position on his futon.

“Are you alright?” Sophie inquired gently. She marked his pallor and his red-rimmed eyes.

Stiles avoided answering Bastien’s mother directly. Instead he said, “I felt the baby move.”

Understanding warmed Sophie’s kind blue eyes. “Ah,” she said. She brushed a thumb over his cheek in a motherly manner. “Bastien wanted me to let you know that he’s talking to Alpha Tracy on the phone right now in the front room. I’ll make you some of your raspberry tea. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

Dread squeezed Stile’s throat shut. He was unable to answer her so instead he nodded mutely.

With a final squeeze of his shoulder, Sophie retreated from his room.

Stiles stared blankly after her.

Bastien was on the phone with Alpha Tracy. Right now. About him.

His stomach swooped, and this time it wasn’t the baby’s doing.

He forced himself out of the bed, tugging his clothes into some semblance of shape. He’d fallen asleep with his jeans and t-shirt from earlier, and despite his attempt, it was pretty obvious he’d been sleeping in them. With a resigned sigh, Stiles grabbed something to keep his nervous hands busy while his ‘acting Alpha’ talked to the reigning were-boss of New Orleans.

Stiles was unable to go down the staircase in anything else but a thundering rush (that would probably change in a month or so—he admitted to himself) so his approach was undeniably heard by both werewolf and witch, alike.

Ransom’s scowl-y face brightened at the sight of him and Stiles felt something in his heart unclench a little. It was nice to be wanted. She reached for him with grabby hands and he obliged her, climbing onto the green corduroy couch with her. She didn’t put up with no thang like personal space and immediately dragged him into a clingy octopus type _glom_. 

Bastien’s cell phone was propped up on the coffee table and from their actions, Stiles guessed that they were on speaker phone with the other Alpha. Stiles looked at his mid-were in question and Bas nodded tightly.

“Is that the elusive Mr. Liska?” a cool authoritative voice came from the phone.

Stiles tensed. Ransom’s fingers dug into his forearms. They had talked about this beforehand, how in the absence of his ‘Mate’ or his original pack’s Alpha, Stiles would defer to Bastien as Alpha in order to show the Pontrain pack evidence of pack hierarchy.

“It is,” Bastien said in an uncharacteristically clipped voice.

“Ah, I thought I picked up the rapid fetal heartbeat of his child,” Alpha Tracy commented creepily. “Remarkable. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it from my trusted second.”

Stiles felt a chill. His and Bastien’s eyes met across the room.

“Speaking of which,” Bastien spoke up sternly, “Your second was out of line attacking Mitch. If he loses control like that around the human populace he is a danger not only to your pack, but to others. Even if the Renard Pack had not offered Mitch and Ransom a place with us, his actions would be inexcusable.”

“Come now, Bastien. You and I both know your pack is no more than a family unit. What can you honestly offer the pregnant mate of an Alpha?” Tracy’s voice was deceptively coaxing. “I know what Callum did was wrong, but he did have a point. Our pack is large and powerful. We can provide a measure of safety to Mitch and his pup that you and yours cannot.”

Stiles bristled. This Alpha reminded him strongly of Peter. The way he used his words like sharpened weapons. No way would he ever give any of _this_ up for someone like that.

“I might have been tempted to believe that of your pack before I saw evidence to the contrary,” Bastien replied smoothly.

Ransom gave him two enthusiastic thumbs up.

“Will you be mating the pregnant human then Bastien?” Tracy’s voice asked slyly. “It may become difficult to keep his existence away from those who might find his _uniqueness_ irresistible. Not only may the original Alpha decide to reclaim what’s his, but there are others who may want what he has to offer. Not only do you have a breeding Spark, but you have an unborn werewolf with magical parentage--”

Stiles gaped at the phone in horror. Was dude saying what he thought he was saying--?!

The way Bastien had gone ramrod straight, eyes flashing gold in fury, gave him his answer. “I assure you, Alpha Tracy, Mitch’s safety and the safety of his child is the priority of the _Renard Pack_. I might not have red eyes, but I do have a century’s worth of alliances. They are not insignificant.”

“And I respect that,” the Alpha was quick to reassure him. “I just wanted you to be aware of what you were getting yourself into.”

Bastien barely held back a growl. “I’m well aware.”

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed,” Alpha Tracy said, “Please accept my apologies on behalf of my second, and my pack. Mr. Liska I hope you are making the right decision.”

Stiles clenched his teeth together. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell the man off, or vomit. Both were equally likely.

“Keep Callum away from my pack,” Bastien added curtly, “Or I’ll consider your apology revoked.” With that he hung up on the Pontrain Alpha.

“I can’t believe the nerve of that Asshole!!” Ransom’s voice rose immediately.

Bastien was of the same opinion. His normally attractive yet marshmallow-like personality was grim like a thundercloud. It was disconcerting to see.

Stiles squirmed away from Ransom, gripping the drumsticks he’d taken down from the attic. He’d originally grabbed them just to keep his hands busy but ended up only able to clutch them in frozen disbelief as the conversation continued around him. He felt like he was in shock. One thing was clear though,

“Ransom, I may need to borrow some aconite powder from your dispensary,” Stiles said absently.

“What--? Why?!” Ransom’s head whipped around.

Stiles twirled a drumstick around his pointer and middle finger effortlessly, “Baseball bats are a little conspicuous in public. I need a weapon I can hide in plain sight.”

He wandered out of the living room and towards the basement where Ransom kept a witches’ dispensary and workshop. He didn’t see the confused looks that Ransom and Bastien exchanged.

“Baseball bat?” Bastien mouthed, bewildered.

 

(none of these images are mine--fyi)

 


	16. Everybody wants an Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a full chapter--this is a brief moment inspired by my wonderful Beta Desmen who offered up two beautifully rendered fanpics for BMHTH. The first is a pic I requested, and was stunned to get back in such detail and so quickly. The second reminds me of the scene towards the beginning of the story, a Sterek flashback in the Loft where Derek had just finished patching up Stiles and things got heated fast. (I get heated fast looking at that pic.) Good job Desmen! Leave a comment if you like the art and/or the scene. 
> 
> NSFW artwork at the bottom

He supposed it hadn’t been such a good idea to expend his Spark riding an adrenaline high. Stiles surveyed Ransom’s scorched workshop from his new vantage point, his eyes blinking owlishly.

There was a muffled but rapid sounding succession of thuds that he guessed were his startled heartbeat but as the upside down door burst open across the room, he realized the sound had been Ransom’s feet pounding down the stairs. Alerted no doubt by some magical alarm.

“Stiles!” She shrieked, diving to his side.

He couldn’t help the drunken grin that split his face. It sounded like she said his name in two distinct syllables, “Sti—yuls!!” It was funny.

He might have hit his head in the fall.

The flash of stabbing pain in his forehead that accompanied his snickers seemed to agree with him. “ _Heehee_ —Oww— _heehee_!!”

“Oh god!” Ransom carefully helped him sit up. “You asshole!” She exploded, almost tearfully.

Bastien was suddenly there, cradling Stiles' head carefully, pulling his pain slowly as not to shock him further. “We need to move him upstairs,” he said grimly. “I need to check over them both.”

Stiles tried to slap away their hands, “I kin walk, m’not a damsel,” he slurred. He got to his feet on his own and swung his arms out for balance. “See?” He tried to take a step forward and found his treacherous legs folding underneath him like a newborn gazelle.

Before his face could kiss concrete, or sand, or whatever the hell that dubious floor was made from, Stiles found himself swung up into Bastien’s arms in a bridal carry. Oh joy. There went another iota of masculinity. Stiles made a rude noise with his lips.

“Ransum’ choo get my sticks?” Stiles suddenly slapped Bastien’s shoulder as he protested being hauled away. He ignored the warning rumble vibrating the side of his body pressed against the werewolf. What?! He was immune to those kind of threats.

“Stiles!! What the hell did you do?!” Ransom’s alarmed yelp echoed up the stairs after Stiles and Bastien as she retrieved Stiles’ poorly advised creation.

The pain star-bursting in Stiles head made him feel a little delirious but he managed to reiterate his point, “Not a fucking dam--”

He sagged in Bastien’s arms, insensate.

 

 

Much, much later, Stiles was wrapped up in blankets and squirreled away on the couch in the living room. His head ached faintly, thanks in no small part to Bastien’s wolf-y pain draw. He was pretty sure the neat little goose egg right over the scar on his forehead would have been migraine worthy otherwise.

Now that the shock had worn off, and some mortification had creeped in, Stiles wanted to flip the blankets over his head and hide from accusing eyes.

“I—we--we’re fine,” Stiles said again, digging his shoulders self-consciously into the cushions of the couch.

Ransom’s lips tightened. Stiles could practically see her argument brewing. If she hadn’t had her own protections up on her workspace, she wouldn’t have known anything was wrong until much later. He shifted his whiskey eyes away.

“You were lucky.” Bastien’s voice still had a little growl to it. It was hard to hear normally Zen Bas so close to his wolf.

After having himself and the baby looked over by Bastien and Sophie, Stiles knew they were fine. Stiles had a bump on his noggin from getting thrown by his spark, and the worst that had happened to the baby was that his adrenaline made the little squirt’s baby calisthenics a little more enthusiastic. He wasn’t going to mention it but he felt so relieved at the news that his legs were like cooked noodles they were so weak.

Bastien’s lingering unease and snappiness made Stiles feel _the worst_. Like a disappointment. Man, was that feeling familiar. And unwelcome. He swallowed a hot lump in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he rasped hoarsely.

Bastien’s viewed Stiles' bent head, “Stiles, _ange_ , you scared the **_shit_ ** out of us.”

Oh now that wasn’t fair. Stiles shivered pleasantly at Bastien’s use of French (Cajun—whatevs Ransom—!). Apparently the accent came out in extenuating circumstances.

The Were halted his pacing in front of the Spark and dropped to his knees in order to meet with downturned eyes, “We are supposed to work together to keep each other safe. Why would you risk your health for something so unimportant when all you needed was someone nearby to make sure you were safe?”

Stiles risked looking up. He looked confused, “Um, because I always work alone?”

Bastien frowned. He shared a glance with Ransom. “But. What if the work is dangerous?”

Stiles pursed his lips, not quite sure why they weren’t getting his point. “Ah, still alone.”

Leaning back on his heels, Bastien looked confused, “How did your pack keep you safe?”

That pulled a sarcastic snort from Stiles, “Safe is such a subjective word.”

It looked like Bastien was fighting a lip curl, “I don’t think I would like this pack.”

Stiles dropped his head back on the couch, “Yeah--,” he exhaled heavily. _But I did_. He closed his eyes.

With his eyes closed, he missed Sophie’s abortive gesture to Bastien when it looked like he was going to comment further. He looked back at Stiles’ pale, tired face and realized his mother was right. The young male was in no shape to reflect on things that made him sad.

“Stiles, I made another cup of tea for you.” Sophie said with a quiet voice, leaning over to place the hot teacup and saucer within his reach.

Stiles eyes blinked open, “Hmm? Oh yeah. Thanks Sophie.”

“Your welcome.”

Ransom picked up on the fact that they needed some quiet ‘family’ time and turned on Netflix for the next mindless movie they had on cue. It was something about baseball. Stiles was tired enough to watch without being engaged but not tired enough that something more plot-y would have irritated him. Thank god, both he and Ransom thought Nicholas Sparks movies could burn in every flame-oriented dimension of Hell. 

Taking comfort from every faint little squiggle Stiles felt from time to time, he sagged back into his heap of blankets with one hand resting on his belly. He couldn’t hear the heartbeat like Bastien but he found that the small internal swooshy movements were regular enough to reassure him. When had they become reassuring instead of a B grade movie featuring Jamie Lee Curtis? Stiles couldn’t pinpoint the moment but if he had to rationalize, it was easy enough. The baby was his and Derek’s. It was the last thing he had of the Alpha werewolf; a bittersweet reminder that for one night, his feelings hadn’t been completely unrequited.

The baby was also the only family Stiles had. His mom was gone. His dad didn’t want him. His brother from another mother thought he was capable of cold-hearted murder. This little fluttery life was genetically predisposed to love him (till puberty at least, then it was debatable) so if he wanted to, he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

It was tempting. To think of a life where his little one toddled around underfoot a witch, a wolf, and a spark. It sounded like the start of a bestseller, or a Disney movie. Only Stiles knew his life didn’t work like that. Case in point, the Pontrain Pack and the trouble he’d caused just by walking down the street with his friend one day. Stiles was cursed. He ruined everything he touched.

If Stiles thought about Derek, which was easy to do with this movie playing, funnily enough. One of the characters kinda reminded him of Sourwolf. If it wasn’t for the pornstache, that was. Dude’s thighs were bigger than Stiles’ head . . . His head tilted to the side, remembering.

Stiles mentally shook himself. Derek didn’t have any family either. Zombie wolf didn’t count. In fact, Zombie wolf was like, a negative count. Cora was barely a count. Maybe .25 for hereditary Hale eye roll. Plus, Derek was not only the baby’s father, he was the Alpha. And if those red eyes Derek had been sporting the last time he’d seen him indicated, he needed to expand his pack. It made sense.

If he didn’t want to examine too closely how much he knew family meant to Derek, and how much making Derek happy meant to _him_ , Stiles would probably acknowledge he was trying to come up with excuses to convince himself to still give the baby up to Derek at the end of the pregnancy. It was getting harder, the further along his pregnancy went.

He hadn’t mentioned his thoughts to the others yet. Ransom would definitely kill him deader than dead. Bastien would be salty. Sophie would be wise and supportive no matter what; she would give him lots of tea. But the worst of all was the fact that Stiles _didn’t know what to do?!!_

 _Stop thinking!_ Stiles ordered himself as his breathing picked and his anxiety rose. He refocused on the movie, and on drinking his tea. Unfortunately at that moment, the character that had caught his eye came on screen wearing the shortiest 80’s red short shorts. _Nothing_ was left to the imagination.

Stiles had two simultaneous thoughts;

_Oh my god, those must be where the term breeders’ balls must be coined from._

And,

 _Derek_.

Tea sprayed out his nose as the thought caught up with him.  

“OHmygod!” Stiles cried out.

“Stiles!” Bastien said his name in complete surprise, grabbing a handful of napkins.

Ransom burst into a peal of evil laughter. She was uncomfortably close to Stiles’ mental wavelength and could guess where his thoughts had been. “Need me to pause the movie?” She asked innocently, pausing at a deliberate crotch shot.

_Oh god, you could almost see right up his--!_

“DOH!” Stiles yelped, his face flushed crimson. He huffed crossly at himself. That was supposed to come out sounding like, _NO!_ He guessed squirting semi-scalding tea out one's nose was reason for nasal irritation.

Ransom’s laughter was renewed at Stiles’ nasal pitch.

Bastien threw her an exasperated scowl, “Are you okay? Did the tea burn you?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Ransom as she held her breath, waiting for him to say, “No,” again. He shook his head instead. He wasn’t burnt, no. Embarrassed yes.

Ransom made a moue of disappointment and unpaused the movie. He wanted to roll his eyes. They were _so_ related on a soul-twin level. This was karmic retribution for the torture he’d put Scott through in high-school.

“M’goin’ to bed,” Stiles said in a low voice.

“Sure?” Bastien checked with him. 

Stiles nodded.

Besides, Stiles wanted to see if he could get that baseball movie on his phone with the crappy reception he got in the attic. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, that is a reference to Hoechlin's Everybody Wants Some. The movie you will reluctantly go into because you want to give one of your favorite actors support, cringing all the while at the bad clothing and hair AND attitude while coming out of said movie with an inappropriate attraction to pornstaches, baseball shorts, men with anger issues and axes. 
> 
> REALLY looking forward to Superman.


	17. Sideways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. So. So, sorry. 
> 
> Music to read by: Within my heart - Ends with a bullet  
> Collage compiled by me.

 

 

Stiles woke up with a sharp inhale and found himself clutching at his chest.

In the darkness of his room, he let his . . . interesting . . . dream fade into the background while replacing it with the reality of his soft nest of bedding.

He was glad to have the futon to himself tonight. Usually one or both of his new pack mates  crashed here with him, or he spent the night in one of their rooms, just seeking comfort. Tonight though, he wasn’t sure he wanted to explain why he felt the need to check the front of his shirt for dampness.

His head thumped heavily on his pillow. Well, that was another first he could cross off his list.

Dreaming about lactation? Check.

He was left with lingering confusion. Stiles remembered the foreign warmth of liquid dropping from his nipples; the way it soaked into his shirt. How it was called to the forefront by the hungry wail of his baby.

It was weird how he almost _longed_ for the way it made him feel. Needed. Useful.

Stiles held back a groan. Only him.

His stomach rumbled with hunger and almost as if to punctuate it, his little nudger did a fwooshy swoop.

“Ah,” Stiles sighed, “I get it, _kochanie_. You’re all about the subtlety.”

He groaned as he rolled awkwardly out of bed. A quick glance at his phone display let him know they were up at the ass crack of not even dawn. He’d have to talk to his kid early on about sleeping and eating habits so they could get ahead of the game.

Going down the stairway was a slower process when done in the dark and half-asleep. Stiles cracked a yawn that practically split his face in half. The landing ended in the kitchen which was handy for midnight snack runs. He headed straight for the fridge out of habit.

He didn’t even flinch when a lump of darkness joined him halfway. “Hey, Gan,” Stiles said, halfway through another yawn. He opened the fridge door and peered into the contents, blinded for a moment by the interior light. He pulled out the left over grilled cheese tomato and pesto sandwich from lunch, giving a wiiide berth to Bastien’s eggs benedict. Even the sight or smell of a half-cooked egg would be the end of Stiles. That was one absolute hard nope for Stiles even after his morning sickness finally finished torturing him. 

Stiles turned around, his sandwich in hand, a hopeful bullmastiff at his heels so he didn’t see the dark figure in the archway at first.

Gansey was the first to notice. His head swung towards the doorway to the kitchen and his long skinny tail whapped Stiles’ knee. He woofed a warning once in his deep mastiff baritone.

Stiles’ head shot up, eyes widening with alarm.

The dark figure was tall. Taller than Bastien and so it was definitely not Sophie or Ransom. Stiles dropped the dish with a loud clatter and retreated from the shadowy form. “GUYS!!” He yelped sharply. His hands flailed, searching for a weapon. He grabbed hold of a wooden soup spoon and brandished it with a wince. Oh sure. Where were his drumsticks now?! Upstairs under his pillow, that’s where.

Within the space of a blink, the figure had moved from the threshold of the kitchen right in front of Stiles where Gansey suddenly changed from his lovable plodding demeanor and staunchly took guard, his growl low and vicious.

The creature, for Stiles was certain whatever he was the tall figure was supernatural, was staring at Gansey in almost, distant fondness. “You do not recognize me then?”

A roar broke the weird conversation between mystery supernatural and mastiff. Bastien had discovered them and was _not_ happy to discover Stiles cornered in the kitchen by an unannounced stranger. “Stiles!” He called out urgently, his face already shifting into its beta version. Without further warning Stiles’ midwolf charged towards the tall shadow.

Stiles used the distraction to lunge for the hallway.

He didn’t get very far before a cold steel-fingered grip caught his upper arm and Stiles was whiplashed around into the creatures lightning fast reach. Stiles cried out his shock at being captured so easily. And also, tall dude also had a set of nasty-looking fangs! _Shit! Fucking Vampire!!_

“Stiles!” Bastien roared, his shifted form hunched over, readying himself to charge again. Just angling for a way that he wouldn’t injure Stiles.

They were suddenly surprised by a ringing, “Let him go, Lee!”

Ransom stood in the doorway, her shoulders heaving in fury.

Stiles wasn’t sure he was imagining the way the grip on his arm faltered for a split second. Though he was a little preoccupied at the reveal of the hitherto unexplained mysterious Lee person. Now he realized there were reasons for her hesitation. Like. So many.

Ransom gestured impatiently and the lights in the kitchen turned on. Hey! He didn’t know she could do that! And _Ow!_ Stiles made a noise of protest as he was momentarily blinded.

“How did you get into my house?” the angry Witch demanded, her power coiling underneath her skin like a threat.

“This is also my house,” the Vampire named Lee answered smoothly, with not so much as a flinch at the change of lighting.

Maybe his strange almost colorless eyes had something to do with that. Stiles couldn’t help but babble mental notes this close to something he’d never seen before. Something his old pack had _scoffed_ at him for asking about once. Well, score one for him! Or . . . or something. At least he’d have something new to add to the Bestiar—Stiles flinched. Ok. So . . . new tradition. He’d get himself a Bucket List. No Bestiary. Check off: _Meet incredibly tall vampire while getting a midnight snack. Had something in common._ Provided he didn’t become the snack, he thought nervously. His arm still within Lee’s iron grip.

“Your charms do not repel me.” The vampire continued, unaware of Stiles panic-fueled inner rambling.

Ransom’s mouth dropped open incredulously, “It is _not_ your house! You left it to me in your will!”

He nodded. “I did. However because it was my residence at time of death I can still move freely about this premises.”

Clearly this was news to Ransom. She did not looked pleased.

This was all very well and good but, “Okay, can I have my arm back?” Stiles complained. “I’m losing circulation.” He winced. He didn't bother mentioning how his skin prickled warily at the contact. Lee wasn’t cold, or feel corpse-like, as some myths suggested but he radiated an uncomfortable energy that scraped against Stiles’ spark in an unnerving way.

Bastien’s growl increased in volume and gravel. His golden eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the hand that imprisoned the pregnant young man.

“No,” Lee answered coolly. His almost pale eyes zeroed in on the only woman in the room, “I have to determine why you have put yourself at risk for this human boy, Olive. My coven have had to discourage several wolves from the immediate area. Explain.”

Ransom looked taken aback. But not a good, or safe taken aback. More like ‘make room mutha fucka’ aback.

_Olive?_ Stiles mouthed.

“It’s been almost _seven years--!_ ” shrieked Ransom. “Seven years since you _died_ , Lee!! The closest you have gotten to contacting me since your fucking **_will_** was sending Lou to me on errands as a thinly veiled way of checking in! Excuse me if your input on my decisions concern me not the FUCK at all!!”

She picked a decorative plate off the wall and frizzbee’d it at Lee’s head. It said something for the Vampire’s shock (and incidentally, Stiles’ familiarity with Ransom that _he_ saw it coming) that Lee only raised his arm in time to deflect the dish from hitting his stoic, goateed face.

Stiles took this opportunity for freedom and wrenched himself forward. Bastien was waiting impatiently for the chance and snatched him midair. One second Stiles was moving in a forward motion, the next he was flying sideways, wrapped tightly in overprotective werewolf biceps. The wrenching motion did not do good things for his stomach. He made a groaning noise as he clutched unsteadily at Bastien’s broad shoulders. 

Bastien set Stiles down carefully, keeping him solidly behind himself and Ransom as she continued to shout at her Vampire ex-boyfriend.

Once Stiles was relatively certain his baby deer legs were going to hold him up, he peered between his friends and huffed in exasperation to see Gansey sprawled out on the kitchen floor, oblivious to the blood-sucking dead guy standing over him, contentedly eating Stiles’ sandwich.

Stiles pouted. He really wanted that sandwich. Jeez adrenaline did weird things to his priorities.

Ransom summed up her long winded ‘I’m my own woman now’ speech with, “and you can’t tell me who I can be friends with, you, you, undead . . . person!

Stiles nodded in solidarity. He wouldn't mention how ridiculously cute she looked with her messy princess Leia buns; which she habitually wore to bed. They trembled under the force of her anger.

"I would simply like to know why you are making enemies of the largest pack in Louisiana,” Lee said tiredly. He pinched the bridge of his nose as though Ransom’s verbal lashing was underneath him. Stiles could see how much that infuriated his friend.

Who was this guy? Stiles wondered. Why did men with goatees and long dark hair automatically look as though they would be at home with a wine glass full of blood cradled in their fingers? Is that why OriginalLee **™** was bitten? Was there a Vampire recruiting league? Was the SadMad Goth Society full that season?

“Because Stiles is part of my family,” Ransom said firmly, “and I’ll do anything to keep him safe.”

Stiles couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He tried unsuccessfully not to choke up, not expecting her response. Hormones were seriously not fair. “Thank you,” he managed to work out quietly.

Ransom flashed him a quick smile over her shoulder.

Lee watched their exchange with those strange mirror-like eyes. “The boy is . . . breeding.” He said this without inflection. But Stiles and his friends bristled at the unspoken distaste.

“Yes, thank you,” Stiles drawled, gesturing grandly, the motion really anything but. “We’ve established that.”

“Where is the sire?”

That dried up any come-back Stiles had ready on the tip of his tongue.

Bastien gave him a worried side-eye. No doubt hearing the anxious blip in his heartbeat.

“Not in the picture,” Ransom answered for him, bless her heart.

“This is why you have formed this . . .” Lee’s eyes took in Bastien’s tense form, Stiles’ half-hidden one, and Ransom’s fierce stance, “unconventional family unit.”

“Pack,” Ransom corrected him. “We’re a pack.”

It wasn’t Stiles’ imagination, he saw Bastien stand straighter at that declaration.

Lee the Vampire was only silent a moment more.

“Make it an accord then,” he said. His eyes flickered like a guttering candle as he leveled his gaze on Ransom, “I will continue to protect your family as you have protected mine without question or request of payment since my turning.”

Ransom was paler than usual with some kind of emotion that Stiles couldn’t read. She nodded shortly. “It will be done,” she replied formally. The veve tattoos on her arms glowed gold briefly in response to the pact. The stiff line of her shoulders relaxed a small degree. “But Lee, I didn’t do it for payment.” She said quietly.

The tall, impossibly tall, dark-haired vampire, thinned his lips. “I know.” He replied almost coldly before vanishing in front of them. (Only now that Stiles was familiar with the _scritchy_ feeling of Vampire, he could feel the energy as Lee passed by them in the hallway—he did not flinch back. He didn’t).

Ransom curled her lips, “Asshole.” She said bitterly.

But Stiles was intimate with the usage and dynamics of the word ‘Asshole’ and was certain her exhalation held at least a little bit of fondness.

“So, uh.” Stiles scratched his head sheepishly, “Anyone up for a sandwich?”

Gansey looked up hopefully from the floor.

 

The unfiltered sunlight was making Stiles sleepy. They had found themselves a little spot for a picnic somewhere in the depths of City Park. Their ‘Breakfast in a Go Cups’ were empty (and how come no one in BH had ever come up with that genuine marvel, Stiles had no idea). His stomach was full. The baby had finally stopped with the hiccups. There probably was no better time to broach the subject.

“So,” Stiles started, rolling his head on his shoulders to wake himself up. His cervical spine crackled like pop rocks at the habitual motion. He tugged Bastien’s chambray jacket closer around his shoulders to chase away the chill and fixed his gaze on Ransom. “Vampire boyfriend?”

Ransom sighed as though she was expecting the subject to come up. Which she had to be. How could they ignore their surprise visitor from last night?

It was easier to do with the sun at its peak. That was for sure.

“Ex-boyfriend,” she corrected him. Nudging her round sunglasses up her nose. She was sitting with her back against an old oak. The green kimono shawl she wore made her look almost like a feisty little dryad. If dryads wore Doc Martens.

Rolling her eyes at his expectant look, she tucked a bookmark into the worn copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. “Contrary to pop culture, romantic relations between Vampires and humans is impossible,” Ransom said with a light shrug of her shoulders. “The Lee I know and loved died seven years ago. The person that took his place, may have his memories but his instincts and needs are practically on a different plane of existence.”

“Is that why I feel like he’s chalkboard, and I’m nails?” Stiles asked.

Ransom smiled wryly at his imagery, “We aren’t supposed to exist together.”

Stiles tried to imagine what that must be like. To love someone who was there but not. To forever have them within reach, but only enough to look upon, not touch. It would have driven him insane. He couldn’t imagine the hidden memory of pain in her eyes. Well, he could. But he didn’t want to.

“So the blood drinking?”

Stiles could practically hear Bastian rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Ransom huffed, “Yeah, that’s a thing. It acts like a tether for their bodies.”

Stiles barely repressed a shudder. He didn’t want to think any further on the process. He’d never been fond of blood. He’d grown used to it by necessity but it still wasn’t his favorite subject. And blood _drinking?_ Ugh. Just. No.

“What about you?” Ransom prodded, “Tell us something about your baby daddy.”

Stiles couldn’t help how his hand automatically went to his stomach. “Um. I don’t know if there’s much to tell,” he said around the sudden constriction in his throat. He forced out a self-depreciating laugh, “Alpha werewolf, obviously. Um. It was a one-time thing.”

Bastian let out a confused sound, almost a growl, “I don’t understand. You have a mate-bite. Those aren’t given without a serious bond in place.”

Stiles didn’t want to think about it anymore. He brushed the thought away with a wave of his hand, “It’s not his fault. He wasn’t meant to be an Alpha. I’m sure didn’t mean to do it.” Stiles huffed fondly, though it felt a bit bittersweet, “He always had the best intentions.”

He didn’t see Bastien’s disbelieving expression.

“You love him.” Ransom said with conviction. Her blue eyes wide.

Stiles swiped angrily at the tears that spilled despite himself. “Yeah.” He sniffled wetly. “Yeah I do.”

Bastien sounded hesitant, “Then why do you hide yourself from him?”

Lifting his face to the sun, Stiles willed his tears away. His nasal passages burned. “I was pushed away by the pack, by my family. My . . . my Alpha didn’t want me for more than that night. I couldn’t stay.”  _I didn’t have anyone_. He couldn’t say out loud.

“Is that why—?” Ransom looked at Stiles, horrified, “That night on the bridge!!”

Cringing, Stiles nodded. “That. And whatever that guy tried to . . . do that night.”

Ransom dove forward and swept Stiles into a tight embrace. “Oh my god, Stiles!”

“What?” Bastien was leaning forward, not liking the direction the conversation had turned. He couldn’t interpret the meaning of the words unspoken, but they left him more than uneasy. “What are you talking about? What bridge? Stiles--?!”

Seeing that Stiles wasn’t about to fill him in, Ransom volunteered. “The night that Stiles and I met, it was at the bar. He’d been roofied by some asswipe. I’d noticed his spark earlier in the night and couldn’t help notice a call for help. When he left the bar I followed.”

Bastiens’ arms suddenly snaked around Ransoms and Stiles could feel the growl picking up against his back. Stiles assumed Bastien was pissed at hearing about his attacker. He patted one tanned forearm awkwardly.

“I caught up with him at the Huey P. Long Bridge and managed to grab him just as he went over.” Ransom finished, shaken with the memory.

Bastien made a sound like someone had punched him. His fingers dug tighter into Stiles and he made no move to complain about the bruises he would likely end up sporting. A nose buried itself at the back of Stiles’ neck, drawing deep draughts of breath. Stiles let him. The werewolf likely needed the reassurance.

Stiles winced, remembering something he had told Lydia once

            _“You see, death doesn't happen to you Lydia, it happens to everyone around you, okay? To all the people left standing at your funeral, trying to figure out how they're gonna live the rest of their lives without you in it--!”_

Man, was he ever getting a taste of his own medicine. Except how was he to know back then that these two people would become so important to him? That he would find a new pseudo family to pull his shattered pieces together?

“Don’t ever do something like that to us, Stiles.” Bastien’s raw voice tickled the back of Stiles’ neck. “If you feel that kind of desperation again, please let one of us know.”

“Have you felt like hurting yourself since then?” Ransom asked him somberly, pulling back to peek up at him.

Stiles’ stomach dropped at the question. He wet his lips nervously with his tongue. “Ah, maybe? I’ve had . . . like, thoughts?” He admitted reluctantly. His eyes shifted away from their disappointed expressions. He couldn’t help thinking again about the leftover Adderall in his bag. 

“Stiles!” Ransom cried out unhappily.

“No.” Bastien growled. “No, okay? Whatever makes you want to do something like that, you’re _wrong_! We’ll prove it.”

Tears ran unchecked down Stiles’ cheeks. “What if I care too much about you two, to hold you to that promise?”

“Too fucking bad.” Ransom’s voice was muffled from being pressed against his white t-shirt.

Stiles choked back a grateful sob. He buried his face in the back of her dark hair.

It was a while before he could bring himself to reveal his face. Stiles was embarrassed at his breakdown. And feeling guilty.

Bastian squeezed his shoulders, “Hey, no. Don’t. We’re here for you.”

Stiles cleared his throat, “Thanks,” he said gruffly. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hands. “Well. Today’s the day for revelations. What about you Bastien? Any traumatizing relationships we should know about?”

Bastien allowed Stiles and Ransom to untangle themselves from the impromptu cuddle before answering, “Well. There was that weekend I spent with the Succubus twins—that was pretty intense. Or the time I had to jump out onto the fire escape to hide from the Were-lion. He was a little possessive. Almost didn’t get away from that one with my balls intact—”

Jaw gaping wide in disbelief as Bastien maintained his serious face, Stiles leaned forward and punched him in the shoulder. “Seriously?!”

Bastien burst out laughing, his sunny face and crinkling blue eyes instantly making Stiles feel warm inside, “What? One of us has to have a healthy romantic life, if only just to prove to you two that it _is_ possible.”

Stiles made a face, “Oh. Succubus twins are _normal._ Were-tigers—are nor--?!”

Ransom body checked the two of them, “Normal for the three of us, c’mon admit it!”

Stiles pursed his lips, thinking of his list of romantic interests; Banshee, Were-Coyote, Alpha Werewolf. “Point.” He admitted.

“Let’s head back,” Bas chuckled, nudging the two of them with his shoulder in a not-so-subtle attempt at scent marking, “I saw a lady selling pralines at the entrance to the park.”

Stiles scrambled to his feet, not very gracefully with his center of gravity way off. Ransom steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Who knew at 15weeks he’d be even more clumsy than usual? That and his appetite was back with a _vengeance._ “What are we waiting for?” He huffed through his brief dizzy spell.

They gathered up their garbage and belongings and began the walk back. Even taking it slow Stiles was finding the stroll draining. He looked forward to having a nap when he got back to the house. He’d been having more of those of late.

“Coming back with us Bas?” Ransom asked, twirling a fallen leaf between her fingers.

“I’ll join you back to the house,” Bastien said. “But I have an appointment for 4.”

Warming up, now that he was moving, Stiles handed the jacket back to Bastien and stretched his arms out in the crisp autumn air. It was cool but as long as they were in the sun it was warm enough.

He didn’t feel too self-conscious about the visibility of his pregnant belly. His t-shirt was loose on him from the weight that he’d lost, plus he had the usual plaid layer to add dimension. He deliberately did **_not_ ** think about the emasculating stretchy band of fabric that was added to his otherwise fashionable pair of skinny jeans. Hell naw. In fact one may point out that he may have gone a little overboard in compensating with the bullet shell belt to try to gain a few points back. Except it was totally practical and filled with goodies like aconite, wolfsbane, salt, and red brick dust; and as an added bonus his drum sticks hung through specially made loops.

So anyway, other than his poor fashion sense, Stiles was pretty confident all eyes were drawn to his two pretty companions when he was out and about, so he had nothing to worry about. Y’know, ‘cept for the werewolves.

Speaking of which.

“Bastien?”

Stiles’ midwere had faltered a step, reaching back for his hand. It encouraged him to pick up his pace. “We’re not alone,” Bastien said tersely.

His spark was sleepy from the sun and fresh air and it was strangely not on alert. Stiles was a little disconcerted at his friend’s announcement. “But pralines!” He whined.

“Mieczysław!” Ransom barked at him, her nerves making her short at him.

Stiles came to an abrupt stop as he stared at Ransom in awe (which was the opposite of what she wanted, she realized too late). “You pronounced it right!!”

She poked him hard in the shoulder, “Russian granny remember? My Dad was a bit of a polyglot. Which I am _not_ , but I can recall some words from my childhood. And pronunciation of Eastern European languages come easily. Now come _on!!_ ”

He blinked rapidly as she dragged him along, “Wait. How did you guess my real name? I never told you!”

She grumbled, “Witch with a woo-woo gift remember? And you never flinch when we use your alias. So it’s also a little bit of common sense.”

He beamed at her. She’d make a great Scooby. Lydia would be proud.

“How’d you even get Stiles out of that mouthful?” A familiar voice scoffed.

Stiles immediately puffed up with his sarcastic worst when the voice sank into his memory and a cascade of emotions volleyed for control. Fear, anger, relief. Mainly anger.

He swung around to see a figure step out from the trees.

_Jackson._

His mouth dropped open in shock.

From behind him, he could hear Bastien growling a warning low in the back of his throat.

“Wh—Jacks—what?” Stiles sputtered helplessly.

Time away from Beacon Hills seemed to have done Jackson Whittemore some good. He looked less homicidal lizard, and more typical New Orleans tourist. His appearance seemed significantly less cruel, uptight, rich boy. If Stiles could trust what he saw in that single moment, his high-school frenemy looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen him. The humor twinkling in his blue eyes was still sharp, but not with the intent to maim.

“Woah,” Jackson’s expression froze comically as he got his first unimpeded look at Stiles front and center. “He wasn’t kidding.”

“What?” Stiles was blinking rapidly, wishing the world would right itself and make sense again. Since when did Jackson show up in New Orleans at the same time as him? And _who_ wasn’t kidding?

Bastien’s rumble deepened with warning just as another figure stepped out behind Jackson. Especially when Stiles heartbeat ratcheted up an impressive scale. He stumbled back into the blond werewolf without realizing it. “Peter--!” Stiles gulped out. And god damn it! The elder Hale _was_ wearing board shorts!! What the flying fuck?!

“Stiles,” Peter said his name in his usual creeptastic way.

Stiles recovered quickly, “I knew it!” He jabbed his finger forward accusingly. “I knew you got out of Eichen!!”

Peter spread his hands as if to say ‘of course’. God, that smirk was straight out of his nightmares.

Then why was he fucking feeling something suspiciously like _relief_ to see these two clowns?

“Stiles, we don’t have much time,” Jackson tried to cut in.

Stiles threw up a hand sharply and Jackson’s mouth snapped shut in surprise.

“I don’t care. If he’s here I want nothing to do with it,” Stiles said firmly. Logic won over whatever fucked up homesickness he was feeling. He wasn’t stupid. “I don’t know what he’s told you to go along with whatever crazy scheme he’s cooking up Jacks but I’m not buying it.”

“You’re not safe,” Peter tried, in that smooth as butter voice. “You need to come with Jackson and I. We have to get you out of Louisiana.”

Stiles bristled, “Are you kidding me?” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “I’m supposed to be safe with a necrotic zombie werewolf and an ex-kanima now hugobosswolf? How stupid do you think I am?”

Peter’s hands raised, as though he was trying to show how harmless he was. Boy did Stiles ever know how untrue that was. The last time he’d seen what they could do they’d been trying to kill Scott. He stared at those hands guardedly while his own hovered over his belt.

“I have always thought you to be the smart one, Stiles,” the older wolf said in that infuriating drawl of his, “I know I am not deserving of your trust. However we don’t have time for team building. The other pack is coming for you and the pup.”

The breath hissed out between Stiles’ teeth in shock.

“No.” He stepped forward before Bastian’s hand grasping the back of his shirt brought him to a rather awkward halt. “No--!! You do not get to talk about the—the baby!!” He hissed, jabbing his finger wildly. “You do not get to show up out of nowhere like the creeper you are and talk about—get out of here! Get out of here right the fuck now!”

He was glaring at Peter through swimming eyes. _Tears of fury_ , he told himself.

Bastian was pressing against his back, arms curled around him. As much comfort as they were holding him back from doing something reckless. Stiles could hear the low almost sub-sonic rumble that he was trying to use to soothe Stiles.

“Calm down, Stiles please.” Ransom said under her breath, her lips tight with concern. Her eyes were sharp on the strange werewolves. “Your blood pressure--”

Stiles hadn’t even noticed her hand around his wrist, he was so hyper focused on seeing his pa—

He pressed his eyes tightly closed. “Just leave.” He said wearily. He almost slumped in Bastien’s arms with the exhaustion that hit him suddenly.

He was sure Jackson and Peter were gone when Bastien didn’t feel like a fortified shag carpet all up his back. Stiles was too drained to even snort at the mental image.

“Were they--?” Ransom started to ask.

Stiles shook his head, “I can’t—” He hated how his voice broke. God, how he hated feeling like a condensed version of every twisted Greek tragedy.

Ransom looked humbled. “Okay. Ok, let’s get you home.”

He nodded. Shrugging Bastian off as gently as possible, Stiles headed the direction they had originally entered the park. He was almost too tired for the inevitable thoughts that crowded his head but he couldn’t help it. Did this mean the rest of the—did Derek know where he—no. Peter wasn’t working with Derek, Stiles realized. There’s no way the Alpha would ever send his Uncle to Stiles deliberately.

So that meant Peter was working on his own. No big surprise there; but where did Jackson come in? Why would he voluntarily work with Lydia’s attacker? There’d been no love lost there before. How did Peter go from Eichen to wherever Jackson was? To _here?_

And Stiles _would_ wonder how Peter knew about the pu—baby. About the baby except it was _Peter_. If he had a plan, he was moves ahead of everyone else. His lips tightened at how it reminded him of the Nogitsune.

Bastian stopped to get pralines from the sweet old lady sitting on a crate by the gates of the park. Stiles didn’t have the heart to disappoint the hopeful looks he was getting from his friends, so he gave them what he hoped was a grateful smile. He didn’t feel hungry any more but he had lots of experience faking it. And he was sure that he’d be hungry again later, so.

While change was being handed out, Stiles stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet while they waited.

**_“STILES!”_ **

The breath caught in his lungs. A startled cough and inhale turned to petrified stone in his larynx.

Autumn air turned syrupy thick as he tried to turn his head, bewildered by the chorus of voices suddenly shouting his name. His brow crinkled in consternation.

That.

That voice.

That angry, barking, beautiful voice—

His fingers reflexively pressed over the sudden flutter going _nuts_ in his belly.

The world shuddered unevenly as he took a step backwards. _Confusion, elation, despair, hope, shame, horror._ All these emotions slammed into Stiles as his disbelieving eyes took in the distant sight of Derek Hale rushing towards them.

“Derek?!” He exhaled shakily.

It was like saying his name released the floodgates.

Stiles legs threatened to fold underneath him. “Derek?!” He cried out.

Oh god. He was so. So much. But he. He needed. Right. Right now.

He could see Derek’s lips moving but his attention was torn away by the warning roar of a werewolf. Stiles’ amber eyes widened in alarm as he saw Peter tearing towards him, his face half-shifted. “Stiles RUN!” Peter snarled.

Then it was like everything happened in slow motion.

Ransom’s eyes widened, torn between Stiles and the rapidly approaching red-eyed Alpha who went from frighteningly fast sprint to werewolf lope within the blink of an eye. The glow curling around her hands became clear to the visible eye.

Bastian moved to intercept Peter out of instinct, the forgotten pralines spilling to the pavement.

Jackson cleared the gate, in half-shift. His lengthening canines and sideburns already in place.

But Stiles realized too late what the werewolves were going all DEFCON 1 for.

An unmarked van was climbing the curb behind him before he’d even finished spinning around.

“Shit!!” Stiles yelped.

At least his hands moved independently of his brain. Thank god for small favors. He already had his drumsticks gripped in his fists.

The van doors slid open and before Stiles could backpedal out of range a big burly arm swung out and seized him under his armpits. It was done from the moving vehicle and Stiles was too stunned to move out of the way.

“N—nuh--!” Stiles protest cut off breathlessly as he was jerked off his feet into the air, “Der—!”

A chorus of pants-wettingly infuriated howls followed the speedily retreating car.

The large hooded figure that seized Stiles swung them into the interior of the van with ease. The side door quickly swung closed by another masked kidnapper waiting inside.

Stiles didn’t wait for answers, his blood was pumping, all too aware where he was likely headed.

Blinded by fear and the need to return to _Derek_ , Stiles stabbed the arm still clamped over his chest.

Though his drumsticks looked like typical dull instruments, the lovingly-etched batons sunk into the bared arm without yield. His captor howled with surprise and pain and Stiles found himself unceremoniously dumped to the van’s floor.

Somewhat prepared, he rolled to protect his vulnerable midsection. The drumsticks he held crosswise in front of his torso.

“Take me back!” Stiles demanded through clenched teeth, cold sweat licking his brow. His spark flared gold and briefly lit the interior of the vehicle.

His kidnapper pulled his balaclava over his head in response and Stiles felt his stomach drop like a stone.

“Oh little one, not when I finally have you,” Callum chuckled deeply. His eyes darkened as they looked over him like he was a prize. The large werewolf didn’t even seem to care that his arm was perforated and blackened with wolfsbane.

Stiles swallowed nervously.

An almost unnoticed **_fft_ ** noise drew Stiles attention unwillingly to the second kidnapper and he noticed two things. One; there was a gun aimed at him. Two--

Everything smeared sideways into shadows as Callum victoriously caught the unconscious Spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love me?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music to read by: Touch - Daughter
> 
> It's a shorter chapter this time but it ended where I wanted it so I'm happy. Lots of stuff happening. People coming together. N'stuff. 
> 
> Not beta read because ain't go time for dat! :P

“Stiles!!”

Derek didn’t care if he was seen in the middle of the day half-wolfed out. His mate was just forcefully dragged into a van.

And he was doing his damnedest to catch up to the unmarked vehicle. Since he’d given up all human pretense, he was eating up pavement with his four-limbed lope. He had tunnel vision. The sight of the blacked out rear windows of the van were his bull's eye. Everything was insignificant and painted in crimson.

He promised himself when he got a hold of the kidnappers he was going to _bathe_ in their blood.

Derek hadn’t arrived in New Orleans after a stomach-churning flight, with less than 2 hours sleep in who knows how long, to rush off without even checking in to a hotel, tracking down Stiles’ location via phone thanks to Danny’s perplexing skills only to miraculously find Stiles standing on the sidewalk. Right before getting abducted moments later.

This was _not_ how it ended.

Derek put on a burst of speed. He contemplated his true Alpha form but it lacked the savagery of his beta-shift.

The Van he was chasing suddenly swerved to the left. There was a cacophony of sound. Brakes squealed, metal screeched, glass crunched ominously. The sharp putrescent smell of burnt rubber seared Derek’s nose as the Van lurched into reverse, backup lights flickered as the driver recklessly tried to swerve around the rental car that had suddenly driven into its path.

 _Lydia!_ Derek realized with a jolt of recognition. That was the car they’d rented at the airport. She was trying to slow them down.

Her desperate attempt to help him, help Stiles, fed the fuel of Derek’s fury. Whoever was hurting his pack was going to **_pay_! ** He roared, lunging for the retreating vehicle with his deadly claws extended. Sparks scattered in the air as his sharp nails gored the back door.

But it was all for nothing.

The van lucked out once it got past the now smoking rental car. The street beyond was clear of pedestrians and despite the front bumper dragging low on the pavement, the kidnappers were able to accelerate past Derek’s limits.

A block later, Derek came to a defeated stop. Jackson’s low howl of worry tugged on the old threadbare pack bond. He was worried about Lydia. Derek watched the van shrink into the distance with burning red eyes. Strangers were carrying away his mate, his _anchor_ ; and his unborn child.

“I’ll get you back.” He swore past sharp canines. “I swear it, Stiles.”

That or he’d die trying.

With his jaw locked tightly against his instinct to howl his grief and fury into the sky, Derek returned to the damaged BMW. The wail of incoming sirens were not far off.

Jackson had already ripped open the crumpled driver’s side door and was examining a hunched over yet pissed looking Lydia.

“I’m fine Jackson!” Lydia snapped at his hovering hands. She was already holding a wad of napkins to what looked to be a nasty split on her forehead. “Ugh, my insurance premiums are going to take a hit--!”

“ **Lydia?** ”

Jackson sprawled back at the low, vibrating, pitch of Derek’s voice. He’d never heard that particular sound from the Alpha before. The hair on the back of his neck stood to immediate attention and he fought the instinct to cower. He did however back up to let the older werewolf examine the red-head for himself.

Only when Derek’s hands gently prodded at the rapidly swelling contusion did Lydia’s own hands begin to shake. “I tried, Derek.” Lydia said intensely.  The Alpha could only nod, miserable with his own failure.

Danny had climbed out the passenger side window. He was bruised from the collision but otherwise unharmed. His attention was sucked into the tablet clutched between his flying fingers. “I know they likely had a fake plate, but I’m doing what I can to hack into the software in the van. We were close enough that I was able to do that much. I’ll let you know as soon as I get something.”

Derek stared at the dark haired boy in incredulity. He placed a hand on Danny’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Thank you Danny,” his voice gruff with gratitude. Maybe they would be able to pick up the trail faster than he’d hoped.

Maybe taking the dry witted student with them hadn’t been such a terrible idea.

A woman’s raised voice caught his attention.

“—this your fault?!”

Down the block where Stiles had stood prior to being snatched, a young woman was fearlessly encroaching on Peter’s personal space. A tall blond man was holding one of her arms, looking as though he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to restrain the bundle of fury or take over himself.

Derek saw red. He’d forgotten about the suspicious presence of his Uncle in the resulting conflict. “Peter!” He snarled.

Peter looked up, eyes narrowed. “Derek,” he acknowledged curtly. “I’d say it was a pleasant surprise, but—” he shrugged.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded the younger Hale, stalking forward angrily.

Jackson was carefully sliding behind Peter, a motion that Derek couldn’t ignore. His scowl deepened at the obvious placement.

“I tried to appeal to Stiles to leave with us,” Peter admitted, his lip curling bitterly. “The boy was too wary to give us a chance.”

“Because _we’re_ his pack!” The unfamiliar brunette snarled. Her statement emphasized by the golden eye flare of the man behind her. “He’s been hurt enough by you all!”

Derek found himself growling at that. _Now_ he recognized the blond. He was the one in the picture. The werewolf Stiles had been cuddled up to. “He already has a pack!” Derek’s snarl ripped out of him. He fought back the beta shift by the skin of his teeth. His control was fraying.

Two cop cars pulled around the corner and came to a stop next to the rental car. Derek stiffened defensively and looked towards Lydia.

“It’s okay Derek. I’ll tell them it was a hit and run.” Lydia said under her breath, knowing he could hear her. “You figure out where we go from here.”

“We should get out of sight before a bystander rats on us,” Jackson said nervously.

“Ransom,” the blond said in a quiet voice.

The brunette huffed, “No one’s gonna say anything. Welcome to Murder Capitol USA.” She turned her head to catch the eye of the Praline lady. There was an enigmatic nod between the two, and a subtle symbol, a _veve_ , drawn in the air with a finger and Ransom had the air of the satisfied. “No one will say anything about your extra furry problem.”

Derek made a sound of derision and Ransom whirled on him.

“This city is crawling with Vampires, Zombies, and Lwa! Do you think a few Werewolves are going to turn heads?” she hissed at him. “Not unless you fucking make a bigger idiot of yourself!”

That didn’t sound reassuring.

“Who took Stiles?” Derek demanded.

There was a flurry of suspicious eye-shifting. Peter and Jackson shared a look. Jackson’s eyes going wide in a ‘No— _you_ tell him!” kind of way. Ransom and the blond beta werewolf shared a despairing, deeply concerned look that made Derek want to whine in anxiety.

“Please— _fuck!_ I need to find him!” Derek implored. He wasn’t above begging if it helped him find Stiles. He raked his hands through his hair aggressively.

The blond were stepped forward, his blue eyes wary, “We couldn’t see who the kidnappers were, they must have been wearing some kind of scent blocker because I can’t smell anything to identify them—but the only ones who knows about Stiles’— _health concern_ besides us . . .” here he looked at Derek suspiciously, “and apparently you, would be the Pontrain Pack.”

“Who the hell is the Pontrain Pack?” Derek rumbled. His instincts bristling at the thought of another freaking pack wanting Stiles. He stiffened as Peter scoffed not so quietly in the background.

“An extremely old pack with an exploitative Alpha,” Peter spoke up.

Derek didn’t look impressed. “You’d get along great,” he snarled. _What the hell was Peter doing here? With Jackson?!_

Peter looked unbothered by the slight. However there was a strange gleam in his eye. Jackson shifted uneasily behind him, gazing between Derek and where Lydia and Danny were finishing up with the police.

“I’ll deal with Alpha Tracy,” the stranger said grimly.

“I’m sorry,” Derek cut in, sounding not sorry at all, “Who are you?”

This forced a growl from the blond werewolf. Ransom placed her hand on his chest, not to restrain him because that would have been a foolish move. Instead it looked more like she was reminding him of their objective. Her own eyes were narrowed at Derek, unimpressed.

“My name is Bastien Renard of the Renard Pack. I’m Stiles friend, and his pack mate. I have already warned the Pontrain Pack that they would draw retribution from my allies if they came near Stiles again.” His forearms strained against his jacket as he clenched his fists.

“ _Again?_ ” Derek growled. He didn’t like that implication.

He had to ruthlessly push down on the jealousy that reared its ugly head. This werewolf smelled of Stiles. In fact both he and the girl smelled like the three of them were physically in each other’s back pockets. It was driving his wolf instincts wild.

“Ugh!” The girl, Ransom, made a disgusted noise. “Suck on your testosterone dance! We have to get Stiles back! KISS!”

Derek reared back, “What?!”

Bastian rolled his eyes, “Keep It Simple Stupid.”

Ignoring them, Ransom pointed at Peter, “You. How did you know about Stiles and what do you want with him.”

Peter’s lips curved approvingly, “I’m one of Beacon Hills’ rejects. I’ve had my eye on Stiles for a while and when his pack finally did the unthinkable I used my considerable network to track him down. I observed his pregnancy for myself. From a distance.”

“Why—?” Derek rumbled dangerously. He tried to ignore how Bastien was also growling at the Peter’s admission.

Peter’s eyes cut to Derek sharply, “Stiles has always been underutilized and unappreciated. McCall didn’t deserve the boy. I simply couldn’t let the opportunity to join forces slip through my fingers.”

Something didn’t sit right with Derek about his Uncle’s explanation. There was the glaring presence of _Jackson_ for example _._

His suspicions were interrupted as Ransom swung around to him. “Spill,” she demanded. “This is all very coincidental, how all ya’ll showed up at the same time.”

Derek agreed but he couldn’t put forth his theory about how it was just his fucking horrible luck. “We have a hacker. He found Stiles,” Derek said succinctly. “I got here as soon as I could.”

Ransom warily chewed on her red lips. “Okay well, great. Perfect. Anyone have a way to get Stiles _back?!_ Because I for one can’t stand around with the thought of him with those skeezy fuckers.” Her eyes were bright with fury, and—were they tears?

Alarm buzzed through Derek. “Why? What do they want with Stiles?”

“He’s a pregnant, male, Spark, Derek.” Peter said laconically. “What do you think they want him for?”

For a brief blinding moment, everything was blessedly numb. Derek’s brain shorted out at the image Peter’s words provoked. “No.” He rejected, stunned.

“Oh, shit.” Jackson said hushed, seeing the change come over Derek’s face.

“ **No**.” Derek repeated through sharp teeth. The sound that ripped from his chest was saved for the most feral animals. Everyone around him cringed back instinctively at the promise and threat the singular word comprised.

“Derek!” Lydia’s voice cut through his imminent rampage. Possibly about the only thing short of Stiles that could. Derek hesitated, turning his red-eyed gaze on his second.

She and Danny had just finished giving their statement to the Police and were hurrying over.

Danny held up his tablet, “I think I have a lead!”

“Where?” Derek demanded harshly.

Taken aback at how obviously Derek was losing a handle on humanity, Danny stepped back. “Um. Ah—an abandoned theme park. Six flags?”

“Oh fuck. I know where that is!” Ransom exclaimed. She exchanged a meaningful look with Bastien.

“What?” Both Derek and Lydia snapped.

“It’s right across the highway from Lake Pontchartrain,”

Why did that sound familiar?

Derek’s eyes narrowed. Pontrain Pack. Lake Pontchartrain.

“It’s their territory.” He realized with a sinking feeling.

Ransom was clutching Bastien’s jacket. “We have to get there!! How are we going to get there?! I don’t have my car!” She was trying to shake him. He was looking at her in concerned bemusement.

And the rental car was out of commission, Derek noted helplessly. It was currently being hooked up to a tow truck.

Jackson and Peter were doing the thing again. The annoying loaded stare. Derek growled a short, “What!”

“We—have a vehicle,” Jackson offered reluctantly.

Peter huffed.

 

“Are you guy’s _glamping_?!” Ransom screeched in delight. She was staring at the airstream camper behind the dark blue Toyota Ram. Jackson rubbed his hands over his face with a deep sigh.

Derek was already in the passenger seat. “Let’s go!” He said impatiently.

Peter slung the keys around his finger, “Such a backseat driver.” he said magnanimously.

 

Fresh air on his face revived Stiles enough to notice he was being carried somewhere. His brow puckered as he tried to understand why he needed to be lifted. Did he fall asleep on the couch again?

“Bas?” He tried to say, only he found his lips clumsy and strangely rubberlike. He managed an indistinct mumble.

The hands under his armpits tightened noticeably.

“He’s coming round,” someone said. It was a deeply pitched voice. Stiles didn’t like it. His frown deepened.

Another voice responded, this one farther away. Female. “It’s expected. It was a low dose. Anything stronger and it could be harmful to the boy. I will administer another before we leave.”

Stiles was finding it hard to concentrate on the conversation. Something about it was setting off alarm bells but it was like he was buried under heavy feather-duvets; the kind Ransom had in the library.

The thread of anxiety that trickled in was muffled and far away. Stiles wanted to sink back into his dreams where Derek waited for him and this nagging _wrongness_ could be forgotten. He was so tired . . .

He drifted instead. Unable to return to the relief of sleep and also unable to fully bring himself to full awareness. He was unable to hold onto hold onto wispy thoughts of where he was eventually deposited, or why it smelled faintly of burnt sugar and salt water.

It wasn’t until there was a terrible **_roar_ ** that made everything around Stiles quake that he was able to open his eyes.

His heart hammered against his chest at the sound. Something dangerous was pissed off. He tried to get up. Move. Anything—but his body refused to respond normally. Instead he flopped around wherever he was like a limp fish. He was helpless.

 _Shit!_  Why couldn’t he move?!

A hand was placed on his shoulder and pressed him down firmly. “Relax Mr. Liska. You will not be harmed. It is just the Alpha you wounded earlier, getting the antidote for the wolfsbane.”

 _Mr. Liska?_ Why did that sound familiar, Stiles wondered heavily. His name was _Stiles._ He dropped his head back in surrender and blinked owlishly at the blurry figure above him. It was a woman. He could tell that much.

Was he—was he on a _table?!_

He made some kind of noise, his head lolling drunkenly on the hard surface.

“We don’t have much time,” a third strange voice joined in. “There is a second pack looking for him right now.”

Stiles jolted at the reminder. _Derek!_

That’s right! Derek! He saw Derek! Right before—before—

“Roll that closer,” the woman’s voice instructed.

There was the wobbly noise of casters, and something bumped the table. Stiles squirmed ineffectually, finding his arms and legs loosely bound. His breath caught at this discovery. Why was he tied up? And on a table? Where was everyone?

Someone was pushing at his clothing. Stiles protested, in garbled tongue as hands pushed his t-shirt up to his neck, and then his pants down past his hip bones, very nearly exposing him. He tried to roll away from the hands but they were almost superhuman in strength. He was easily pinned.

Werewolves, he realized numbly.

Something blunt was pressed firmly against his tummy. Stiles froze in horrified realization when the touch brought shocking clarity. The meaning behind their actions became clear.

His baby.

They wanted his baby.

A raw animal cry of desperation escaped Stiles as he fought the hands with newfound purpose.

“No!” He scratched and clawed at the rope around his wrist. “You can’t have m’baby!” Stiles reached past the numbness, burning through the heavy blanket of drugs for his Spark. It wasn’t easy. It was like trying to grab a slippery fish; whatever they had drugged him with was obviously tailored specifically with a spark in mind but he was reacting on primal instinct.

For a moment Stiles was surrounded by a golden force field. The unlucky werewolf holding him down flew back and crashed out of sight. However the woman, the one working the ultrasound machine, was unaffected.

Stiles slowly sat up, tugging his arms free.

“I am only here to view the health of your unborn child,” the woman told him calmly.

 _Emissary_ , Stiles recognized the signature inscrutable energy. He gaped at her in betrayal. “My child is fine, no thanks to you!” He panted, leaning heavily on one arm, and cradling his belly protectively with the other. “Take me back to my pack!”

“I can’t do that,” She said gravely. Her eyes were dark and solemn as she gazed upon him.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Why are you doing this?” Stiles asked brokenly. His Spark was flickering, exhausted and still affected by the drugs in his system.

His supporting arm buckled and the emissary was ready, patiently waiting for him to falter. She stepped forward and caught him before he face planted, all the while depressing a syringe into his neck.

“No!” Stiles pushing at her shoulders, “The baby!” His honey eyes were wide with fear.

“The sedative will not affect your baby. Only you Mr. Liska.” The woman said assuredly. “Rest now. You and the little one will not be harmed.”

Stiles had no other choice. Instantly he felt turgid with the influx of tranquilizer.

“Plz, dn’t--” he slurred, slumping in her arms.

He wasn’t sure. He could have imagined the apology she whispered against his brow.

The next moment he was under.


	19. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music to read by: Touch by Daughter

“Ransom, cider--?”

“It smells amazing, yes please!”

Stiles crinkled his brow. It did smell amazing. Cinnamon, and Vanilla, and was that _Cardamom_? It smelled like his mom’s pierniki. The scent and its warm memory was enough to rouse him from his nap.

“Mrrg—sorry.” He stretched, blinking owlishly from a heap of comfortable warm plaid wool blankets tucked around him. “Whaddid I miss?”

They were sitting in a flatbed truck, surrounded by all the fixings of an autumn picnic, or tailpipe party. Except no one here followed football. So, picnic. Stiles rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He couldn’t remember how they got there. Strange. He must have been more tired than he thought.

Ransom was wearing one of his plaid shirts; underneath was a black t-shirt that said ‘What up witches’. She was in mid-pour, serving herself a mugful of the delicious-smelling cider.

“Lots of scenery.” Her ruby lips quirked up, “Nothing you won’t recover on the way back.”

Stiles gave her an easy lopsided smile. “Who says I won’t sleep all the way back?”

“I will tickle you!” She threatened.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Stiles mocked her.

“Nobody is going to do anything that will possibly end with falling over the side of the truck,” Bastien spoke up dryly. “Have a donut and don’t make me find a safety harness.”

Gasping in mock affront, Stiles took the box and flipped the lid, “Oh be still my beating heart!! Are these Mary’s apple donuts?!” Stiles crowed in delight. Shoving one in his mouth, he fist pumped, “Yes!! And they’re fresh too!!” He ignored the donut crumbs that sprayed from his lips in his hurry to get as much of the edible happiness down his gullet.

“And that—folks, is the rarely seen, Pregnant Male European Spark in its natural feeding state.” Ransom drawled.

Stiles flicked a crumb at her in retaliation, his amber eyes narrow.

Bastien sat slumped against a stack of hay bales that leaned up against the truck’s cab. He wore a black and red checked shirt, jeans and a green beanie. It was a sin how hot he was. Stiles wanted to grumble about unfair supernatural beauty standards but his mouth was still full of goodness. He’d have to wait. But really though. Did the man have to ruin _work boots_ for him? No way was he going to be able to look at a pair of scuffed up rubber boots the same way again.

Goddammit, Bastien was giving him that super smug look. Ugh. His life.

Stiles hunched over and chewed his remaining bite sullenly. Werewolves sucked. He resolutely turned his gaze to the scenery and was able to admire the late fall colors for a few seconds before being drawn back to the flat bed once more as Ransom unpacked sandwiches. His stomach growled. Absently he patted at the mound rounding out his waistline.

“Whatcha got there Ran?” Stiles questioned, lifting his pert nose in the air as though he could smell it out.

“Grilled cheese.” She answered smugly.

He moaned obscenely, “Bastien’s grilled cheese?” A look to confirm, and he was making impatient grabby hands towards her.

Bastien’s grilled cheese was made with pressed sourdough bread, smoked Gouda over meatloaf and caramelized onions. There were no words. No. Words.

Stiles let out another unashamed noise when he realized the sandwich was still warm. “This is amazing guys. I have literally died and gone to heaven. Thank you!”

Shaking her head, Ransom said, “You worry me Stiles. You were there when we got everything ready. You made the cider!”

He didn’t hear her, he was too busy biting into the delicious amalgamation of gooey cheese and crunchy bread and crumbly fragrant meatloaf. His hunger was enormous. It was like he could eat for _days._

“Leave any for me?” A familiar voice shivered down Stiles’ spine.

Stile’s head snapped around to see Derek climbing into the back with them, a hesitant smile on his face. “Derek,” he exhaled in disbelief.

Grilled cheese forgotten, Stiles lunged for the Alpha. A confusing surge of emotion drove him to press against the older man, fingers wringing the unprepared man’s purple Henley. Hurt, confusion, longing, shame, euphoria, all vied for first place. But. Stiles couldn’t remember the specifics of _why_ he felt so torn.

“Stiles?” Derek said his name in confusion. He wrapped a hand gently around the back of Stiles’ neck and the younger man shivered at the simple touch. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just—” Stiles had no words to explain why he felt such desperation at the sight of the Alpha. “—really glad you’re here.” He finished lamely.

“You’ve got--,” Derek swiped a thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip gently. “Cheese.” His impossible eyes twinkled.

Stiles huffed. “Bastien’s Grilled Cheese.”

“Oh?” Derek looked over at Bas. “Still teasing Stiles with your culinary finesse are you?”

Bastien winked, “But he’s so easy!”

Stiles squawked. “Hey! I seem to remember some mutual gropage for my brownies!”

“The brownies are an unfair advantage and you know it,” Ransom waved a cinnamon stick in his direction. She was dipping a half of a poppy seed bagel into her cider. Stiles wrinkled his nose at her in disgust.

He was distracted by Derek drawing him down into the nest of blankets he had abandoned. He followed, struck dumb, as the gorgeous man drew him into the vee between his splayed thighs and wrapped possessive arms around his waist. Stiles blinked helplessly as Derek’s body heat seared along the curve of his spine and where he pressed against his arms and legs.

It felt familiar, and yet foreign at the same time. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that this was a moment to treasure, so Stiles made himself relax into the embrace. His eyes fluttered as Derek’s warm breath stirred against the shell of his ear.

Bastien and Ransom were snickering back and forth. Stiles narrowed his eyes. They were making fun of him, he could tell. “Shut up,” he grumbled.

“Oooh, Derek,” Ransom swooned. She threw the back of her hand to her forehead and slumped against the cooler.

“I don’t look like that,” Stiles snapped.

Bastien raised his eyebrows.

“Shut up.” Stiles grumbled. _He didn’t!_

“So where are we going?” Derek enquired. The vibration of his chest was soothing Stiles to the point where his eyelids began to droop. He felt safe. Protected. Treasured.

Except, Stiles kinda wanted to know where they were going too. He cracked his eyes open.

Ransom shrugged uncaring. “Dunno.” She waved at the cab behind her head, “He said he’d take care of it.”

_He_ who? Stiles wondered. They were all there. In the flatbed.

He roused himself with a bit of difficulty. Were they moving? How had he not noticed? The scenery was passing by at a serene pace, but now that he noticed it he could feel the breeze ruffling through his hair. It tasted faintly of . . . brine?

“Who’s driving?” Stiles asked.

It was like they didn’t hear him.

Ransom and Bas were too busy flinging pretzels at each other to notice his spike in alarm, and it seemed Derek was content to watch him. He had a possessive hooded expression on his face. One Stiles had never seen before. He backed slowly out of Derek’s embrace, spooked.

“Derek?” He said, his throat constricted. “Der, who’s driving?”

Still, no one answered him. Unable to wait any longer Stiles crossed the flatbed on his hands and knees, crawling towards the hay bales that made a mound in front of the rear cab window. His hands were shaking as he pushed them out of the way.

Peter’s electric blue eyes looked back at him from the rear-view mirror.

_“Don’t you understand yet? I’m not the bad guy here!”_ Peter said in his twisted, _dark_ , Alpha voice. The monstrous guttural one from Stiles’ memory, and worst nightmares.

Letting out a terrified yell, Stiles backpedaled furiously, reaching for Derek—

 

And jolted, awake on the floor of a . . . _boat?_

It took more than a few heart pounding moments for Stiles to get his bearings. His eyes rolled in panic as he tried to shake off the drug fueled exhaustion that made him achingly helpless. It was all he could do to just take in his immediate surroundings; the unpleasant salty smell of stagnant seawater, the rough plank of wood against his cheek, the way his arms were bound tightly behind his back, the welcome warmth of a moth eaten wool blanket shielding him from a brisk late autumn wind. His gnawing hunger. The sound of lapping waves.

His breath hitched.

He was on a boat.

“He’s awake,” spoke Callum’s deep bass voice.

Stiles eyes zeroed in on the scuffed deep yellow toes of the boots in front of his eyes and refused to look up. He panted carefully through his mouth, trying not to panic. The memories of the last time he was awake vied with the bittersweet longing to return to his dream.

“I can’t give him another sedative,” The emissary’s neutral voice responded, “Not without causing him harm. However we’re almost there.”

We’re almost where? Stiles wanted to know but was afraid of the answer.  

His stomach growled at him, feeling empty. When was the last time he’d eaten? Stiles bit his lip. It was just a matter of time before the baby started kicking him in reminder. He closed his eyes tightly, curling a little bit more in the fetal position to protect his bump. _Gods_ how was he going to protect the baby from this pack by himself?

When he reached for his spark for reassurance he was stunned to find it reticent. Try as he might, he could not access his magic. It was like there was a barrier between him and the glow that he had grown to take for granted. He must have made a noise of distress because the next thing he knew, he was being righted against a bench, blinking in incomprehension at the only person who could have sealed him from the source of his power.

“What did you do to me?” Stiles demanded, his voice cracking revealingly. His normally whiskey brown eyes were dilated. Blown almost black with panic.

“You are very powerful,” The woman acknowledged solemnly. “I needed to neutralize your spark in order to ensure your capture.”

Stiles’ breath began to stutter, “But the baby--!”

She nodded sharply, following his train of thought. “I did not take any chances that eliminating your spark would harm the child so I simply bound you. Doing otherwise would be . . .”

“Counterproductive,” Stiles exhaled bitterly. Of course. Even if the Pontrain pack knew nothing of how he managed to conceive a child with a werewolf, they guessed it had to do with his spark. If they wanted him for those reasons, they would have to find a way to contain his unpredictable spark, not _eliminate_ it.

“My Alpha is going to find me,” Stiles said, his voice as hard as he could manage.

“Which Alpha?” Callum stepped closer.

It took everything he had not to flinch back at the expression on the werewolf’s face. Stiles couldn’t help the kick of his heartbeat though.

“Bastien Renard,” Callum continued, his hot predator gaze sharp, “or Derek Hale?”

Stiles jerked forward before he remembered his arms were bound. “You don’t get to say his name!” He snarled viciously. Stiles ignored how he was glaring at Callum from the deck of the boat.

“So it’s true then.”

The emissary didn’t look very happy at the news. “Your name is not Mitch Liska. It’s Stiles Stilinski.”

Baring his teeth, Stiles didn’t realize how animalistic he looked until Callum’s eyes flashed in warning. “It’s none of your fucking business!” Stiles snarled. “It doesn’t matter who I am, if you don’t let me go, it’s going to be more trouble than you want. I promise you that!”

Callum had the balls to chuckle which only infuriated Stiles more. He was afraid, hungry and vulnerable. His back was to the wall and he couldn’t help going blind with a mixture of desperation, fury and panic. Before he even knew what he was doing he was lunging forward. He struck like a snake, sinking his teeth into Callum’s nearest calf.

The werewolf, to his credit, didn’t kick him off; which would have been very bad. Instead, Callum bit off his sudden cry of surprise and grabbed the back of Stiles neck to haul him off.

The emissary was shouting something in the background, likely pleading for calm, but it didn’t seem to be necessary. Callum dragged Stiles up from his prone position on the floor, and pulled him tight against his chest. He took the liberty of wuffing deeply at Stiles’ scent. The cocktail of emotions had to be pretty impressive.

Stiles spat out the mouthful of blood that he’d managed to get through the denim. He’d be impressed with himself if he wasn’t so revolted at the fact that the werewolf holding him didn’t seem very put off by his defiance. Plus, _gross_.

Callum dragged his large nose along Stiles’ shoulder towards his neck, Stiles squirmed frantically in his arms. Letting out a satisfied huff, the massive werewolf said, “You will prove to be a challenge, little mate. I like your fire.”

Stiles blinked. Uncomprehending the words.

When his brain came back online, he renewed his struggles, “I’m not your anything, asshole.”

“Not yet,” Callum allowed. “I can wait until the birth of your child.” There was a flash of sharp white teeth. “Then I will show you what it means to have an attentive mate.”

“What?” Stiles tried jerking out of his grip, “No! Not happening!” He felt nauseous. His legs were getting wobbly with what was probably shock.

“That’s enough, Callum.” The emissary admonished. “You are scaring him.”

The boat gently bumped against something and Stiles dimly realized that they had arrived at a rather shabby looking dock. In the middle of . . .

Wait. Where the hell were they?

“Where—where are we?” Stile’s tried to process. He saw nothing but mossy cypress trees and soupy looking swamp water.

“We are going to stay here for a while,” the emissary answered vaguely. “We will need to keep you from sight until things are handled.”

Stiles gaped at her disbelievingly. “Here—on the boat?”

“It doesn’t look like much,” Callum rumbled, “But the cabin has everything we need.”

Cabin?

Stiles looked again and this time managed to pick out the _shack_ that blended into the surroundings. It was well camouflaged he realized with a sinking feeling. If he couldn’t pick it out from right in front of himself, it likely wasn’t more visible from overhead.

If his friends even had the resources to look for him in a swamp.

Callum took advantage of Stiles’ shock to lift him from the boat without struggle.

When Stiles noticed he was being pulled closer to the cabin he finally had the sense to put up a struggle. “No! Don’t do this! Please! I want to go back to my friends!” Callum ignored him, only taking a hold of his elbow to tug him forcefully along.

The screen door squealed sharply as Callum pulled it open. Stiles was panting short quick breaths, only one more shock away from a panic attack.

Stiles admitted he was expecting to see a wreck inside to match the outside but when he was nudged not so gently over the threshold he was surprised to find the modernized and well-kept state of the shack—cabin—whatever. It just solidified the fear that they were being honest about keeping him here for a while.

His knees went out beneath him and Callum didn’t bother to catch him as he dropped heavily to the floor.

“You will like it here,” Callum was saying past the loud roar in Stiles ears. “There are no neighbors so we will have complete privacy. Lots of wildlife to keep us entertained. The cabin has all the amenities. Plenty of the pack have used it for a romantic getaway.”

Stiles refused to look at him. Bile was sitting heavy on the back of his tongue. Was this—was this it for him?

Did he—did he maybe see Derek one last time?

His eyes were hot but the tears refused to fall.

That. That was okay. It was more than he thought he’d get honestly. And if Derek was in New Orleans that meant that he had been looking for him. At least maybe the Alpha had cared enough about him to not give up on him completely. Stiles swallowed past the enormous lump in his throat. That meant something. Right?

If nothing else. He had that.

Stiles let himself be lifted up and led over to what seemed to be two separately recessed hutches in the wall that held decent sized beds. They looked to be blocked off from the main living space only by thick curtains.

“I will be sleeping in the bed right next to yours,” Callum explained, sounding very satisfied with himself as he untied Stiles’ arms and then attached medium weight silver cuffs around his wrists. Stiles felt numb as he watched them close around his slender arms. A long length of chain ran from his cuffs to somewhere at the back of the sleeping area.  

“These allow you some freedom within the cabin,” was explained to him. “If you need to go anywhere else you will need to be accompanied by myself or Shandra.” A large hot hand lingered on his jaw, but Stiles made no notice of it.

_Shandra. So that’s the emissary’s name._ Stiles noted, drifting. _Should have had a more evil name. Shandra doesn’t sound very intimidating. But then, neither did Jennifer. Or Kate, really. But Kate sounds like an upitty stuck up bitch so that sort of works out. And Jennifer wasn’t her real name. It was Julia. And Julia is the female version of Jules, or Julian, or Julius Cesar and dude was stabbed. So. The backstabbing darrach deserved whatever happened to her…_

Not really noticing that he had been deposited on the uncovered bed, Stiles curled up on himself and stared blindly at the wooden paneling. Callum said something about making him something to eat, but Stiles was no longer hungry.

He was lost.


	20. Even if it kills me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this writing period was the suckiest in the history of suck. After what happened with the election I felt like hiding from the world indefinitely. Except I had neglected to prepare for end of days, so. My canned food ran out and I was forced to come back. I'm not an American but I feel a justifiable threat from that virulent pustule of withered manhood just as any ex-rape victim ever could. I have one parent that remembers the Ghetto's in Poland, and another with native-american ancestry. Plus, I'm pan-sexual. So if someone were to drop me in Trump run USA I'd feel a little hunted. So I can identify. I'm honestly terrified for the minorities in the US right now (as if I wasn't before--holy shit). If you are reading this right now--I want you to know I am giving you an air hug--a la Tyler Hoechlin style. 
> 
> On a lighter note, trying to write with an 8 year old bouncing around like a chipmunk who fell into a bunch of fermented crab apples is rather challenging. I fend him off with ever evolving empty threats (I hope no one bugs my house--they would think I was an abusive mofo). I think he's on to me though, he just cackles even more wildly and keeps at it. 
> 
> Also--this chapter deals with some heavy crap. If you have triggers WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING READING THIS STORY?!! lol No really, be forewarned. It's not nice. Check the tags my lovelies. 
> 
> Songs to read by: Czarne Wlosy, Zielone Oczy - Katy Carr  
> Breaking the Chain - Sum 41

Stiles poked warily at the food on the mattress in front of him.

“It’s not drugged,” Shandra offered calmly. She was eating her own breakfast at the coffee table in the center of the room. She was enjoying her coffee while overlooking the view from the front of the cabin; which opened like the bay door in a freakin’ garage. It had given Stiles a minor heart attack earlier when Callum swung it open, careless of the ear-splitting, grating metal noise.

Clearly they didn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing them. Not for the first time Stiles wondered how far from civilization they were.

He looked down at the paper plate. He knew he should eat but the idea of food nauseated him. He didn’t trust anything that came from either one of his kidnappers. But. He cradled his belly protectively as his little one somersaulted. It wasn’t all about him anymore. He had to think of the baby.

Reluctantly he nibbled at the cold toast.

His eyes examined his prison as he chewed methodically. The alcove with his bed was only big enough for the mattress. The walls were roughly hewn of some kind of wood, cedar or cypress if he had to guess, but well made. There was a recessed light above the bed but the light and wiring had been removed as a precaution. His lips compressed when he saw this. There were no windows but there was plenty of natural light from the rest of the cabin, which his little corner was exposed to since they refused to let him pull the curtain closed.

Most concerning was the sturdy chain than ran from somewhere underneath the bed to his wrists where they were cuffed tightly. Stiles had tested them but they were skin-tight. Even dislocating his thumbs would get him nowhere (except an addition of dislocated thumbs). Shandra had mentioned in passing that the chains helped dampen his spark. Stiles couldn’t help wondering _how_ you imbued metal with anti-spark properties. Darrach blood? Eau de Vampire aura?

So to sum up, he’d literally have to chew through his own wrists to get out of the chains.

And the thought _was_ tempting. Especially with the way Callum kept eying him. Stiles shuddered. He hated thinking that he thought the man was attractive, even for a second. Stupid werewolf gene lottery. Why couldn’t the bad guys look their part?! Instead of an incredibly buff silver fox parading around in ripped tank tops and shorts, Callum should’ve had a funny lisp, or a mullet, or terrible b.o. or something.

So, yeah. His hormones were still all over the place. It might have been funny if not, y’know, for being kidnapped and held against his will by a wannabe rapist and a questionably moral emissary. Stiles tried to swallow unsuccessfully around the lump of bacon that lodged sideways in his throat. He coughed, choking, and reached for the glass of water on the shelf next to the pillow.

Shandra flicked her eyes towards him to make sure he wasn’t choking for real and then returned to her coffee. It wouldn’t do to lose their _investment_ to a piece of bacon.

Stiles pushed the plate away. He couldn’t eat any more.

“You didn’t eat your eggs, little one,” Callum’s deep voice chided him from close by. Stiles jumped, making the plate bounce on the mattress. He hadn’t seen the werewolf reappear. Shit.

Pulling the comforter closer around his shoulders, Stiles replied nastily, “Not unless you want me to vomit.”

“You need your protein.” The large werewolf took the plate and walked towards the kitchen in the opposite corner of the cabin.

Stiles chewed his lips viciously in order not to retort. That was such a golden opportunity—but not with Callum. The freak would probably think he was flirting. He sighed heavily instead. He missed Bastien and Ransom.

It seemed Shandra had finished her breakfast. She joined Callum and they silently cleaned up after the breakfast prep. Stiles could see the familiarity, if not necessarily fondness, in the way they worked around each other. Huh. That was kinda . . . weird. Were packs supposed to be that stilted around each other? (Maybe, he thought bitterly, he was the wrong one to ask)

The emissary was dressed in an odd assortment of gear. Almost like field gear. She wore thigh high rubbers, canvas pants and a long sleeved camo shirt. Her curly hair was tucked into a cap.  “You’re going out?!” Stiles blurted out when he realized what she was about to do. Between the two of them he felt marginally safer in the emissary’s company.

An almost unseen smile quirked her lips. “I grew up in this swamp,” Shandra said. “I know the area well.” She hoisted a bag over her shoulder. “This stay will be a good opportunity to restock my dispensary.”

Stiles found he was almost . . . jealous. He pushed that feeling away. He should be thinking about escape. Not wild crafting unfamiliar strains of wolfs bane. He scrunched his face up and resisted another sigh.

The atmosphere of the cabin was markedly different with the emissary gone. Stiles tried not to draw attention to himself. He remained as still as he could manage within his blanket cocoon. His ADD was pretty horrible, knowing that he was trapped, without anything he could take his nervous energy out on. He ended up chewing his bottom lip raw.

He wanted to ask questions. Where were they? How long were they going to keep him there? What were they going to do with his baby? Did Alpha Tracy give them permission for this or were they working independently? How did they find out who he was? Was Derek okay? Did they have chocolate? He was really craving chocolate—and peanut butter.

Stiles closed his eyes tightly. What a cruel joke. He was still getting pregnancy cravings and suffering indiscriminate horniness while being held against his will in a cabin in the middle of what looked like a horror movie worthy swamp. Only him.

And no way was he going to ask Callum _anything_. The man looked like he was just waiting for an opening to jump Stiles. He wasn’t inadvertently adding fuel to _that_ fire.

With nothing to do, Stiles huddled miserably under the blanket and concentrated on the pouch still hanging safely around his neck. The emissary had apparently deemed it harmless enough for him to keep. It was a small comfort. He could focus on the contents and their properties and _will_ them to work double time for his unborn child. If he couldn’t use his spark, he’d rely on old fashioned faith and mater—paternal…instinct.

Worrying the soft chamois of the pouch between his fingers, Stiles imagined his child whole, and safe. In the arms of his or her Alpha where no one would ever get a chance to hurt them again. Of that, Stiles had no doubt. Derek may have his faults but caring for his pack wasn’t one of them. Even if he’d never considered Stiles a part of the Hale pack (at least not telling differently until the—the last day) Stiles had been adjacent enough to warrant Derek’s protective streak. Killing Theo was just the latest in a long line of mutual saves. So he knew Derek would protect their baby from anything.

He just had to keep them both safe until then.

Being in a constant state of hyper alertness was exhausting. Stiles head began to droop. Every time his eyes fluttered shut, they blinked open again with an accompanying thump of his heart and a suspicious look around for Callum. 

His fingers stayed in contact with the pouch. The image of Derek’s strong hands cradling their baby was vivid in his head. Without realizing it, he began to hum a forgotten tune under his breath,

  _“Poszłam do lasu widziałam konia_

_Poszłam do lasu widziałam sarenkę_

_Widziałam dzika, widziałam wilka…”_

Stiles head began to sag and the words smeared with exhaustion, but he was rocking now. It was a self-soothing motion. Instinctive. Of the song, he was too tired to remember what the words meant, only holding tight to the memory of his mother and her bright lilting voice singing it to him as he fought sleep.

  _“Ale nie widziałam mego chłopca,”_

His breath caught as a little foot kicked under his splayed palm. Even with his eyes closed, half-asleep, Stiles rubbed his thumb over the spot.

For a moment, all was silent. It seemed as though he had either succumbed to sleep or had forgotten the refrain, but finally his soft, stuttering voice sighed out,

_“O czarnych włosach, zielonych oczach_

_Kocham tylko Ciebie--”_

As his heart beat evened out in sleep and Stiles sagged even deeper into his huddle, Callum silently appeared around the corner to his sleeping space. The beta werewolf’s hazel eyes were dark and hungry as they took their fill of the sleeping spark.

 

To say that Ransom’s small house was filled to capacity was overstating it. Right now it held four werewolves, a banshee, a witch, a techno genius and a very anxious bull mastiff. Normally a witch, a werewolf and a spark were enough to fill the homey space. But their spark was absent.

Hence the emergency supernatural assembly in her tiny kitchen.

The house was full of so many rampaging emotions the tired witch was tempted to cast a spell and knock everyone out, just to get a few minutes of peace.

She braced her elbow on the table and propped her tired forehead in her hands.

A hand cupped her shoulder. Bastien’s. She recognized the firm, supportive grip instantly. He slid an espresso under her nose. She hummed her thanks but the sound was swallowed up by the conversations going on around them.

The banshee was on the phone with someone in California, Ransom knew that much. Bas had just finished his own grim chat with a neighboring pack, the DeMolay’s; a very old and respectable pack. They weren’t large in size but very powerful in terms of influence with other local supernatural groups. Ransom was actually impressed that Bastien had the personal phone number of the Alpha, Juliette. Her friend was full of surprises.

“So?” Ransom drew it out.

Bastien propped his hip against the side of the table. His blue eyes were grave despite the news. “Jules is behind us. She was hesitant at first, but only until I gave her the proof that Stiles’ kidnapping was directly connected to Tracy.”

Ransom flicked her eyes to the adorable tanned young man leaning against the counters and tilted her chin in acknowledgement. It was a good thing the dimpled dude had been able to trace the unmarked van back to the Pontrain Pack through hacking serial numbers and suspicious money transfers. Kid was clearly some kind of digital savant.

“That’s good right?” Ransom asked, taking a sip of her hot beverage.

Bastien’s lips thinned. “That’s very good. For _us_. Not so good for the Pontrain Pack.”

“So we have support from what--” the most senior werewolf in the room leaned forward. Ransom watched him guardedly. She didn’t know what to make of his aura. It was not dissimilar to what she was used to seeing around Lou. It was very dark, yet filled with flashes of hellfire. “—werewolves, vampires,” here he took a chance to roll his eyes in disbelief as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “and a witch.”

Smiling sweetly Ransom tilted her head, “I’d rather be with those odds than against them.”

Holding his hands up as if to show his unanimity, the wolf, Peter, added, “I fully agree, sweetheart. We’ve taken the steps needed against the Pontrain Pack. But in the meantime how the hell do we track down where they took Stiles?”

There was a moment of loaded silence. No one could help but remember what they had found at the abandoned amusement park. It was an image that would give each of them nightmares for a long time to come. Their urgency to find the missing boy had ratched up to unbearable levels at that point.

Bastien was the first to break the silence. “They have to keep him near. It wouldn’t be wise for them to take Stiles out of their territory. Unfortunately the majority of their land is accessed by Lake Ponchartrain. So the abandoned trailer we saw at six flags means they likely took him somewhere by boat.”

“Shit,” Peter cursed. His icy blue eyes narrowed in thought.

“So you can’t like, sense him through pack bonds or something?” Jackson cut in shortly.

Bastien flashed his eyes at the other beta. The gold faded slowly. “I’m not an alpha. My _pack_ is a family of choice.”

That produced a low growl from one of the corners where Derek held himself away from everyone. The man had been mostly silent, talking only to Lydia and the other pack member on the phone. His reaction to what they’d found at the park had left him near feral.

Lydia shifted her eyes to her Alpha and she cut her conversation short. Pocketing her phone she moved closer to Derek, holding her hand out in solidarity. She quirked up a sad little smile. He let her offer her support through touch but was unable to relax.

“We’ll find him,” She told Derek in a soft confident voice.

“So, not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but why would the DeMolay pack get involved in this?” Peter returned to the topic on hand, drawing the attention away from Derek.

Bastien didn’t show any sign of showing offence. “Most of the Packs in Louisiana are from old families. They have strong ties. My family, the Renards, are one of the original Acadian families to settle in the area. Our generations of service as midwives alone has significant influence.”

Peter nodded to show that he understood. The power of delivering eagerly anticipated Pack children alone would lend the Renard’s unlimited respect. 

“While I am someone’s midwife, they are my ward,” Bastien explained. “It is my responsibility to keep them healthy and safe from harm. Interfering with that is seen as a major offence to anyone who has ever required our services.” His eyes darkened, “But Alpha Tracy made a huge mistake by taking Stiles after he was declared not only my ward but as member of the Renard Pack.”

“He effectively went to war with you and your allied Packs,” Peter guessed, his face clearing.

“They thought they could get away with it,” said Lydia scornfully. “Unmarked vehicle, hooded kidnappers, scent blockers. They weren’t expecting Danny.”

The young man in question dipped his head bashfully at her proud exclamation.

“Thank you again Danny,” Bastien said, his voice hushed with gratitude. “Stiles is very lucky that you arrived when you did. I can’t imagine how we would have gotten this far without your help.”

Ransom scrunched her nose at an unpleasant thought, “Yeah. I still think it’s a little suspicious that you all showed up when you did.” She narrowed her eyes at the fractured pack.

“We’ve been looking for Stiles for _months_ ,” Derek growled. “Why didn’t you think to call his pack when you found him? This never should have happened!” He accused them heatedly.

Standing abruptly and almost tipping her chair over, Ransom responded with an impassioned, “Because he said his pack _didn’t **want** him!_  He was scared, and hurt, and in shock over finding out he was carrying a _baby!_ We kept him alive when all he wanted to do was die!”

That made Derek stagger back and whine in distress. “No!”

“Ransom,” Bastien said softly admonishing.

“Stiles doesn’t know I’ve replaced his Adderall with sugar, but I know him!” Ransom’s voice broke, “I know him!” She turned to look up at the blond werewolf. “He still wants to, Bas.”

Lydia covered her mouth in her shock.

Bastien folded the now crying Ransom into his arms. “I know,” he said into the crown of her dark head.

That’s why she kept feeling the tension in her bond to Stiles, Lydia realized with horrified realization.

“You messed with Stiles’ ADHD medication?” Danny blurted out in disbelief. “You know that stuff is crazy right? He’ll go into withdrawal if he doesn’t get his regular dose--!”

Ransom swiped at her tears, “He hasn’t taken it since I met him. He keeps an old prescription bottle in his backpack upstairs. I know he takes it out sometimes. I can practically _hear_ him thinking about taking what’s left in the bottle.”

Derek choked out Stiles name painfully.

“Stilinski is lots of things, but he’s not suicidal,” Jackson scoffed.

The small dark haired girl went from sorrowful to furious within a blink, “Oh yeah? Where were you when he jumped off the bridge then?! That’s right—not there! If it hadn’t been for our powers, I’d never have been able to pull him back!”

Hearing this, Derek slowly slid down the wall and stared blankly out at the room. Stiles had jumped off a bridge? An avalanche of hot bitter guilt joined the nightmare image he couldn’t get rid of. The one of the metal gurney back at the abandoned amusement park. The one where he had smelled Stiles on the arm and leg restraints. Where they had found the hastily abandoned syringe with Stiles blood on it. And the horrible sight of the ultrasound machine—

He was losing his grip on humanity. Derek felt the howling madness of his wolf side dragging him down in a maelstrom of despair and self-hatred.

_Stiles was gone._

Then suddenly he was aware of a faint noise. A small thrumming sound. A rapid, hummingbird heartbeat. Derek’s crimson eyes blinked open in confusion. That rhythm didn’t belong to anyone here— _what?_

He found Bastien crouched before him, his cell phone held out, playing a recording.

“What are you doing--?” Derek slurred through the sharp edge of fangs.

“That’s your child’s heartbeat,” Bastien said, lifting his blue eyes. “It’s the reason Stiles has found the strength to keep going.”

Derek stared at Bastien. It took a moment for the words to sink in. His child.

Stiles.

The heartbeat was strong. Derek closed his wet eyes and nodded. “Do you—is there—do you have a picture?” He found himself asking. Hungry now for _more_.

He heard Bastien made an affirmative noise.

While blond werewolf left the room to retrieve a copy of Stiles’ ultrasound, Lydia dropped to her knees at Derek’s side. She nudged up under one of his arms, sniffling back at her tears. Danny, he was surprised to find, followed Lydia’s lead and joined them in their huddle, only on the other side of the red-head. Derek was ridiculously grateful for the show of support, even if he felt like he did nothing to earn it.

When Bastien returned, it was with the latest ultrasound scan.

“The baby is approximately sixteen weeks,” the man said, handing over the black and white image to Derek who accepted the stiff sheet with something akin to reverence.

It was—

It was a _baby_.

Derek huffed out a broken laugh. “It’s sucking its thumb.”

Lydia pursed her lips but her eyes were twinkling, “Just like Stiles. Always sticking things in his mouth.” Then her eyes widened, “I mean--!”

Ransom snorted out a laugh. “Red vines.”

“Highlighters.” Lydia rolled her eyes.

“Dere--” Jackson started to say before Peter reached out and Gibb’s slapped him.

“Is the baby healthy?” Derek asked quietly. Not able to take his eyes off the image.

Bastien nodded, “The baby is doing well. Its Stiles I’m concerned with. He’s been under a lot of stress and his blood pressure is up.” He made a frustrated sound, “I don’t know if they have anyone knowledgeable watching him—they’d better be.”

“We need to find him,” Derek said, his stomach twisting with dread.

Lydia looked at Danny who nodded his head in response. “It takes time to hack into satellite images but I’m on it,” he said, “I have a scout program monitoring all account and cellphone activity connected to Alpha Tracy. I’m just waiting for the right feed.”

 _Wow_ , mouthed Ransom.  She was impressed. “All right. Well.” Ransom flicked out her hands nervously, “I’ve never done this before but if someone can find me a map, I’m going to try my luck at a locating spell.”

“What do you need?” Lydia asked briskly.

Derek reluctantly held the ultrasound back out to Bastien, “Thank you,” he said, stilted.

Bastien looked at Derek resolutely. “Keep it. Stiles would want you to have it.”

Not knowing what else to say, Derek dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

He wasn’t sure what to think of this Beta. The one who had managed to pull together a pack without an Alpha status. That he was close to Stiles was unmistakable from the way he and the witch spoke of him with familiarity and fondness. The fact that they were doggedly determined to find Stiles was both a reassurance, and a concern. Derek told himself that Stiles didn’t owe him anything. Not with the way Derek had let him down. If they found Stiles, and he chose to stay in New Orleans with the baby, Derek knew he was going to have to respect his wishes.

Trying to convince his instincts that it was the best for both parties would take some work. Derek was already struggling with how Stiles familiar scent wrapped around Bastien and Ransom in a manner that suggested their closeness was . . . very close. His instincts demanded that he challenge the unfamiliar werewolf for his mate.

Of course, Derek knew he’d practically pissed away his right to be Stiles’ anything when he refused to acknowledge how much the human meant to him.

It was bitter medicine but he would take that and more if it meant they found Stiles safe from harm.

Derek slowly rose to his feet, taking a moment to squeeze Danny’s shoulder in gratitude. Lydia was busy helping Ransom clear off the kitchen table in preparation for her spell.

His uncle was watching the proceedings with his usual sharp attention to detail. Derek didn’t know what to think about finding Peter here, apparently gathering stray pack members. He frowned. Was he planning on getting his hands on Alpha status again? Jackson looked no worse for wear so at least he hoped the ex-Kanima had become Peter’s travelling companion by choice, not by force. Derek had come a long way from wishing the arrogant ex-jock harm. Well, at least so far today.

He couldn’t sense any ill intent from Peter, or anyone in the room actually. Suspicion was high but that was too be expected. Better than expected if he was honest. But Peter was especially wily when it came to senses. That came from repeated experience.

There was nothing he could do but keep both eyes open, Derek sighed inwardly. They needed all the help they could get. Even his untrustworthy uncle.

It was strange to be here, in this house so far from Beacon Hills and smell lingering traces of Stiles. Maddening. He kept turning around the corner and expecting to run into a familiar flail of arms.

He touched a jar of peanut butter left out on the counter. Stiles must have recently picked it up. Derek closed his eyes. With the scent so fresh he could almost imagine Stiles standing next to him, swiping a generous helping of the spread while talking at the same time; getting it all over his face and long fingers while he gestured wildly in his attempt to get his point across. Derek huffed fondly.

“He’s been putting peanut butter on everything,” Ransom’s voice broke him out of the fantasy. The witch looked like she was reluctant to share the information but her defenses were slowly thawing at the obvious concern the strangers had for Stiles.

Derek put the jar down and tried to wipe the emotions from his face.

Bastien heard her comment but didn’t look up from where he was messaging someone on his phone, “Stiles isn’t the only one,” he said leadingly.

“Okay, I admit it. He convinced me. It’s really good on pizza!” Ransom defended herself. “But I draw the line at bacon dipped in peanut butter.”

“Fucking gross,” Jackson blurted, looking scandalized.

Everyone was making an involuntary disgusted faces at the idea of pizza and/or bacon mixed with peanut butter. Except Peter. “Actually, the Canadians have a marvelous peanut butter burger made of beef, bacon, cheese and peanut butter. It’s quite good.”

Derek lifted one brow as if to say, _Canada? Really Peter?_

Ransom caught the musing look on Bastien’s face, “Oh great. Thanks a lot. Now I have that to look forward to.”

The quirk on Bastien’s full lips indicated she was right.

Lydia finished digging through her carryon bag for the map of New Orleans that she had picked up at the airport. “Got it.” She held it up in the air victoriously.

As Ransom refocused on her task, she rubbed her arms and through the sheer green fabric of her kimono. The others saw her tattoos light up gold. “Okay. Alright. I need something personal of Stiles’.”

“I can find something upstairs—” Bas started to say. 

“Will this work?” Derek cut in, clearing his throat awkwardly. He pulled out the Knights chess piece from his pocket.  

Lydia pressed her lips together at the sight of the wooden piece. Her throat ached.  

Ransom looked up at the scowling Alpha questioningly. What did a game piece have to do with Sti— 

As soon as she touched it she knew.  “Oh.” She said. Her blue eyes widened. “Oh holy shit! Stiles!” She spun around suddenly in a hurry to get the other spell components in place. “Yes that will work!” She said over her shoulder when she realized she hadn’t given Derek an answer. “In fact, y’all might want to step back or leave the room because this might just get—uh—electric.” 

“Ransom?” Bastian said her name, concerned. She flapped her arms at him. “It’s fine Bas. Derek, place it in the center of the map. Please.” She instructed him. 

Derek reluctantly parted with the piece he’d been carrying since starting his search for Stiles. With his back to the rest of the kitchen he missed Peter’s knowing gaze. 

Derek backed up slowly until he was with everyone else fetched up at the opposite end of the kitchen. 

“Uh—what’s going on?” Danny asked reluctantly. He was new to this and just kind of following everyone’s lead. 

Lydia hushed him. Danny pursed his lips, unimpressed. 

Ransom hurriedly rid herself of the kimono and unbound her hair. Her jewelry she deposited on the counter. Then she began to untie her doc martens. When she was barefoot, she reached back over to one boot and pulled out a hidden dagger.  

“Is that an Athame?” Lydia asked, curiously. Working quickly, Ransom still found the time to answer. “No. I’m a bit of an urban witch. Anything can be used as a ritual tool if I will it. Also, I live in Nola. I need to be prepared for anything. No sparkly tools here—” She clapped her hands together once. Loudly. Derek’s nose twitched at the rising smell of ozone. The energy in the room began to change. It sharpened and grew thin.  

Startled, Danny shrank back towards the wall.  

Holding the dagger in one hand, Ransom raised both arms in the air. She focused on the map and chess piece positioned in the center of the table.  “ _Q_ _uaerite et invenietis_ _!_ ” the witch intoned, her voice having taken on a deep powerful resonance.  

Everyone watched, frozen as the young woman then positioned the sharp end of the dagger against the flesh of her palm. Before Bas could even inhale in protest, or move to stop her, Ransom had slashed a line against the pale skin. A neat red stripe immediately welled up and collected. She held the wounded hand out over the map and let the blood drip, slow and methodical.  

Lydia found the ache in her throat growing more persistent. Cold sweat broke over her flesh and she hunched her shoulders, resisting the urge to make a sound. She pressed a hand tightly over her mouth. Something was wrong.  

Derek noticed her distress. His eyes flashed crimson.  

Everyone else who was watching what was happening at the table, saw how Ransoms blood, instead of collecting in one spot as it would normally, began to stretch out in a line on the paper. The anticipation growing in the room was unbearable.  The werewolves could sense Ransom’s body weakening as the bloody path traced its way across the paper. Bastien was half-shifted in the urgency to reach his friend and fellow pack member but no one dared break her concentration.  The last drop of blood hit the paper and it was like a sonic **_boom_**. The pressure in the kitchen exploded like an overfilled balloon and everyone cringed back. Eyes watered, ears rung. The wolves were the worst off with their hyper senses.  But as soon as they could see they began to close upon the kitchen table where Ransom was dropping loose-limbed and shaking, into a chair. In the corner of the map, away from the large blue zone that portrayed Lake Pontchartrain was a neat scorch mark that punctuated the now dried blood trail. 

“I knew it!” Ransom cursed breathlessly, “In the middle of bum-fucking nowhere--!”  

Bastien handed her slices of dried loquat to renew her energy.  

That’s when Lydia began to scream.   

 

The boy was beyond exhausted. He barely stirred when Callum slowly pulled back a flap of the blanket that he had pulled around himself like a sleeping bag. Watching very closely for any signs of a return to consciousness, Callum peeled the blanket away until Stiles’ form was bared to his hooded eyes.  

It didn’t take much to coax the boy over onto his side, he was listing pretty heavily anyway. The werewolf just took advantage and guided Stiles where he wanted him.  He was still wearing the clothes he was in when he was taken. The t-shirt rode up over his round belly to reveal the stretchy band of fabric someone handy must have sewn into the waist of his pants. Callum ran the tips of his fingers lightly over the fabric, hungrily leeching the heat from Stile’s skin. 

Reaching down to adjust his hardening cock, Callum didn’t take his eyes from the sleeping boy. He couldn’t believe his fortune. Finding a male who could carry werewolf pups was something out of the most unbelievable fairy tale. For him, it was a dream come true. 

His mate. Frasier, had been everything he ever wanted. They’d been friends since childhood, inseparable. Both had found respectable positions in the Pontrain pack, not just because of Callum’s familial tie to Alpha Tracy but for their skill in being capable, strong Beta’s. And in Callum’s case, as Tracy’s Second.  

They were happy. Blissfully planning a future together. He’d worshipped his mate; he’d wanted to give Frasier everything that brought a smile to his face and the one thing that Frasier had wanted more than anything was a child. Since they couldn’t have children of their own, they had begun researching their options; adopting, or even possibly surrogacy.  

Then disaster hit.  

Frasier never returned from a routine patrol. Caught unsuspecting by a Rougarou, which was a feral werewolf cursed by black magic, Frasier was torn viciously apart, along with one other pack member before the patrol managed to bring the beast down.   

Callum went crazy with grief at the news. His Alpha had been forced to chain him up to keep him from hurting himself or others. It was a long, long, time before he knew anything beyond the gaping, burning hole in his being where his mate was supposed to be. He was a different man now. His own mate likely wouldn’t recognize him. He was more wolfish in nature than he had been before. He knew his Alpha used that to his advantage and couldn’t find it in him to care. He owed his life to his cousin.

Finding this boy, this _Stiles_ , the night he and a small delegation from the pack had gone out to observe the interloper who smelled of Alpha, had been nothing short of auspicious. It was like the ghost of his mate had led that breeze to guide the scent of the spark to his nose.

And that scent!!

It had nearly driven him to madness once more. Callum could barely control the urge to claim the boy. It was _viceral_. This need to claim him for himself.

The smell of pup on the honey-eyed young man was enough to capture his fascination and lust. He didn’t care how it was possible, or why. It was enough to see and smell the evidence; the febrile heartbeat, the lush scent of pregnancy, the fierce protectiveness packed in a frail-looking body all combined to make Stiles someone Callum could not walk away from.

If Bastien Renard was not going to step up and claim the boy for himself, and the boys own Alpha had discarded him, Callum could not let it stand that he remain unmated. It was to his elation to discover that his Alpha agreed with him.

He knew Tracy had his own agenda. He’d always been like that. But, they were kin and Callum knew that there wasn’t a price he wouldn’t pay if he could keep this fertile young man as mate. That his eventual pups may have a bigger part in Tracy’s scheme to gain power didn’t concern him overmuch.

By now, Callum had managed to unzip his shorts and free his weeping member. He swept his hand over the head, catching the precum in order to use it to slick up the slow drag of his pumping hand. He kept his grip tantalizingly light, picturing spit-slickened cupid’s bow lips in place of his hand.

Those lips were currently parted in sleep, unaware of the large werewolf half-bowed over him. Callum felt his knees threaten to buckle at the growing urge to press his pulsing tip along the sweet curve of Stiles’ mouth, to leave a shine of his spend there like gloss.

His throat worked silently against the groan that wanted free. His fist worked faster, the unforgiving sound of slapping flesh becoming more apparent. Still, the pregnant human boy slept on, having exhausted the reserves of his reserves.

Reaching out with his free hand, Callum carefully rolled back the fabric covering Stiles’ swollen belly. He shuddered at the sight and had to grip himself tightly at the base of his cock in order not to come prematurely. The mound of pale, tight, skin was still on the small size, but it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was. This boy had done the impossible. He had created life within himself. He was a gift, a gift that Callum would not waste.

He had so many _ideas_ on how not to waste his mate-to-be that he could excuse the telltale tingle at the base of his spine. He was in a hurry to mark the boy in some way, Shandra couldn’t fault him as long as he didn’t harm the boy before he delivered the pup.

Shuffling a little closer to Stiles on his knees, Callum was able to ever so gently, trail the tip of his cock over the mound of flesh he had bared for his enjoyment. That simple contact made him lock up in the hottest orgasm of his life. Distantly he felt his cock spurting ropes of come over Stiles swollen middle and the nearby sheets.

Breathing heavily, Callum milked himself empty. He trailed the sensitive head of his cock over the mess he left on Stiles’ pale skin.

There was a muffled noise. Callum lifted his gaze to the boy’s face, which was slightly scrunched up as though unwillingly being drawn from slumber. He was sure the spark didn’t mean the expression to be as endearing as he found it.

Quickly, before Stiles gained full clarity, Callum swept his thumb through his cooling come and rubbed it along the parted seam of the boy’s mouth.

Stiles sleepily smacked his mouth at the touch, running his tongue curiously over the wet sensation on his lips. The bitter, salty taste made him scowl unhappily and his eyes fluttered open. “Wh—tt?”

His eyes settled on the image of the imposing werewolf kneeling next to him, tucking his half-hard cock back into his shorts.

With a horrified shout, Stiles pushed himself away. He scrubbed frantically at his mouth with his sleeve. “What the fuck?!” He made another unhappy noise at discovering his uncovered belly. He scrambled to right his clothing, all the while glaring hatefully at Callum. “Get the hell away from me!”

Unbothered, the werewolf remained where he was. He found he liked the reactions of the little spitfire. “Like it or not, we will be mates. I don’t want to harm you but I will take what pleasure I can without harming the pup.”

Stiles eyes were wide, his shoulders heaving as he tried to breathe through his panic. “That’s rape—” he said hoarsely.

Callum gave a shrug. “That’s a human concept. I am giving you what no one else is interested in. I will devote myself to you and our pups. My pack will keep you safe. I don’t think it will be the hardship you imagine.”

“But I don’t want this! I want _my_ pack!” Stiles yelled, eyes wild.

“They can’t give you what I can,” Callum said dismissively. “You will accept me in time.”

Stiles just stared at him in horrified disbelief.

The hulking werewolf leaned closer. “You are attracted to me. I’ve smelled you,” he said huskily.

Making a strangled sound, Stiles kicked out with his foot to keep Callum back. “I’m pregnant, asshole! A tire commercial gets me horny!”

Callum sighed. “I have patience, little one. But only in some things.”

As the werewolf turned his back on him, Stiles saw red.

Not even sparing a moment to think it through, he struck like a snake. Hauling on his chain with an abrupt snap he gave himself enough length to throw a loop over Callum’s retreating head. Stiles was on his feet and leaping in the air (if his movements were less than Neo smooth—we can forgive his carry-on). Above his bed was a cross post. He threw his end of the chain over it and then dropped his weight as sharply as he was able.

Callum had half-turned when the chain tightened around his neck with short-lived rattle. He reached up in an attempt to loosen the constriction around his windpipe. His face contorted in rage when he realized what Stiles was attempting.

Stiles didn’t slow down or hesitate, he knew he only had the element of surprise on his side, and maybe, with any luck, gravity. He scrambled back onto the bed, as far back as he could manage in order to stay out of reach. The werewolf was half-shifted now, struggling to claw through the chain at his neck, or to pull Stiles closer in order to loosen the noose.

Stiles wasn’t fully successful. The awful high pitched whistle that came from Callum meant that he was still getting air, but it wasn’t going to be enough to sustain consciousness forever. Stiles was sweating as he struggled to hold on. His fingers were slipping on the coils of chain. He just. Needed him. To pass. Out.

“Please, god please—!” Stiles begged, gasping against the horrible burn of his muscles. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed and focused everything he had on bracing his handful of chain against the bed. The links were cutting into his flesh, blood mixing with the sweat to make the chains extra greasy.

He had to ignore the burning cramps starting low in his belly.

_Please, kochanie . . ._

“Well, this isn’t quite what I expected to find when I got back—” a woman’s voice said dryly from the front of the cabin.

Stiles cried out in denial. “No!” Just as the chains began to slide through his sweaty hands. He watched fearfully as Callum slumped to the floor in a heap, mostly unconscious. He knew it wouldn’t last long. The werewolf would be up and tearing his face off in mere moments.

Shandra placed her full rucksack on the coffee table with the air of someone who was long-suffering. "Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself Callum? I expected a little bit more restraint,” she sighed. She pulled a vial from her pocket and uncorked it. “I did warn you.”

God—Stiles thought through gritted teeth. If he never suffered another emissary it would be too soon.

She walked calmly towards them. “I am surprised things got violent so fast however.”

“Fuck you--!” Stiles panted, hand on his belly. He winced as another cramp seized him.

Her eyes narrowed sharply on the movement.

Callum was beginning to push himself off the floor with one hand. He was growling. A sawed-off, terrible growl as the damage to his throat repaired itself.

Shandra didn’t waste any more time and tipped the mountain ash from the vial into her palm. With it she created a line across the doorway to Stiles’ bed space.

It was good that she did, because as soon as Callum was vertical he was stumbling straight for Stiles.

The mountain ash barrier repelled the determined werewolf with the usual blue flash. Callum roared his frustration.

In the background, Shandra was clinically gathering items from her bag. She walked past her pack mate with barely a flicker of regard. Once she’d joined Stiles on the other side of the mountain ash barrier, she spoke coldly to the snarling were,

“Walk it off,” She ordered sharply. “And if anything happens to this baby because you couldn’t control your urges I will personally take great pleasure in making you the first castrated Werewolf in Louisiana.”

Callum obviously didn’t know when to quit. “It would grow back, bitch—” he growled, blue eyes flashing in warning.

The smile Shandra gave him didn’t reach her eyes. “Not if I treat the wound with mountain ash and mistletoe.”

Realizing he’d lost this round, Callum stumbled back, fury still steaming of his body almost visibly. With a final enraged roar, he stomped from the cabin and disappeared from sight.

Huddled over his aching belly, Stiles didn’t feel any safer with the emissary despite the verbal smackdown just delivered. He knew his child was endgame for her and so he warily watched as she tipped a small packet of unknown powder into a bottle of water.

“Drink this,” she instructed, holding the bottle out to him.

He stared at the bottle suspiciously, biting back a groan at the burning cramp spreading from his belly to his lower back. He grimaced. “What is it?”

“It will keep you from losing the baby,” She said plainly.

Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t let that happen. He accepted the water shakily and brought it to his lips.

He ignored the used dishwater taste and gulped it down quickly.

“Now lay down,” the emissary instructed, “it’s going to make you drowsy while it works.”

His breath choked in his throat, “Don’t let anything happen to her,” he begged. “Please.”

The only answer he received was the give of the mattress as the emissary sat next to him in order to observe her medicine go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lullaby translation:
> 
> I went to the forest I saw a horse  
> I went to the forest I saw roe deer  
> I saw a wild, I saw a wolf
> 
> but I have not seen my boy
> 
> The black hair, green eyes  
> I love only you
> 
> from 'Czarne Wlosy, Zielone Oczy - Katy Carr'


	21. Cunning Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear God. 
> 
> There is a shit ton going on in this chapter. Trigger Warnings are in full effect; Callum has his bad touch on. It's not pretty. Don't risk reading if it might upset you. 
> 
> There is a cliff hanger. For all of you cliff hanging haters out there it just couldn't be helped. This is a big scene and it just wasn't all going to fit in one chapter. Baby Haleinski will be fine. That's all I'm gonna say. 
> 
> I don't think I'll get another chapter up before Xmas so consider this an early prezzie. If I manage a miracle then it will be a pleasant surprise for everyone. :)
> 
> Song to read by: Breaking the Chain - Sum 41

“Argent.”

Chris’ eyebrow rose blandly at the tone of the Sheriff’s voice. Interesting. He hadn’t heard that particular brand of thinly-veiled fury in a while. He’d been ‘Chris’ not ‘Argent’ for months now. He placed the carton of free-range eggs in the cart before giving the man his full attention. “Sheriff.” He returned the favor. “How can I help you?”

“Care to tell me why Hale suddenly left you in charge of the construction of his house?” John said accusingly.

“Wasn’t aware he had to notify you of his whereabouts,” Chris drawled, “And the house is kind of a group project—as you well know. I think I’m reliable enough to watch over a construction crew.” He was not unaware of the irony of his situation. Ex-hunter supervising the construction of a Pack house. Hell—he was an Argent helping build a new Hale House. It was kind of karmic, he supposed.

“Cut the crap,” John lowered his voice angrily. He looked like he wanted to jab his fingers in Chris’ chest for emphasis. “Derek has a lead on my son. Where did he go?”

Sighing inwardly Chris wished Lydia was here to diffuse this situation. He didn’t have the patience to be empathetic. “Not here,” he said through thinning lips. He cut off the angrily protesting Sheriff with a pointed look at their surroundings. “You really want to talk about this here? With all these ears, John? I’ll drive back to your place.”

The Sheriff’s jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. “I’m following you in the cruiser.”

Chris allowed himself a wry smile, “I’ll just pay for this then.”

 

It seemed the Sheriff made a few calls as they were en-route. The driveway was full of vehicles as Chris pulled his SUV up to the curb. He wanted to roll his eyes. Well, at least he could get this over with in one shot—

He resisted the urge to reach under his seat and pull out the extra loaded SIG he had hidden for emergencies. It just _felt_ like he was going into a fire-fight, he told himself. The two magnums he wore habitually in twin shoulder holsters didn’t count. He practically felt naked. #hunter issues

With a suffering huff, Chris stepped out of his vehicle.

“Chris?” a quiet voice came from the green belt at his back.

“Isaac,” Chris responded without even a twitch.

“Melissa, Scott, and Liam are inside. No one else has shown up yet.” Isaac filled him in.

Chris dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Thanks. You coming in?” He was no werewolf but he could sense the young man was hesitant.

Isaac looked at the Stilinski house with trepidation he quickly buried. “Yeah. They’ll take the news better if you’re not outnumbered.”

The laugh lines around Chris’ eyes deepened. “You got my back?”

Smiling hesitantly, Isaac ducked his head. “Yeah.”

“Good man,” Chris clapped a hand on Isaac’s shoulder in thanks.

 

Once inside the Stilinski house, the two members of the Hale Pack found themselves under intense scrutiny. The Sheriff had taken off his jacket and taken stand in the kitchen, bracing his arms on the table as he watched the two men approach with an unimpressed expression.

Stilinski got right to it.

“What do you know about my son?”

Chris leveled him with a stare. He ignored Scott and Melissa for the time being. “What you have to understand is, nobody remaining here knew anything until after the fact.”

“What do you mean?” Scott said suspiciously.

“What I mean is, I didn’t know Derek was gone until he called me from the plane.” Chris explained.

“Plane?” John barked in outrage.

Chris ignored him. “He asked me to watch the house in his absence. He and Lydia were following a lead, along with Danny and didn’t know when they would be back.”

“Why didn’t you notify us?” John demanded, nearly apoplectic, as Scott said,

“Derek and Lydia went after Stiles--? Why?”

Chris was beginning to regret the temporary period of time he actually had hopes for Scott McCall. Clearly he’d misjudged. He ignored the Alpha’s question in order to answer the father first. “The information they moved under was extremely concerning and became time-sensitive.”

“He’s **_my son--!_** ” John shouted. “I should have been notified!”

“It wouldn’t have changed the outcome,” Chris said, maddeningly calm.

“What do you mean?” Melissa finally said, looking worried. “What outcome?”

Chris grimly exchanged a look with her and she swore under her breath. “Chris. Is he alive?” She asked him shakily.

“He’s been kidnapped by a local pack.”

John’s legs buckled and he dropped heavily into a chair. “What?”

“Kidnapped?” Scott said disbelievingly. “Why?”

Isaac growled softly behind Chris.

“Apparently in addition to all the reasons you overlooked him for, Stiles is pregnant.” Chris just came out and said it. Really how else was he going to broach the subject? Delicately? With congratulatory cigars? Sorry, not his style.

John just dropped the hands he had holding to his head and stared at Chris in betrayal. “This is no time to make a _joke!_ ”

Chris pulled out his cellphone and opened up the pictures that Lydia had shared with him. “I think you’ll find I’m completely serious, John.” He handed them over.

The Sheriff was dubious as he accepted the phone. He looked down at the image of a sleeping Stiles. With a pregnant belly bump. Then looked back at Chris, his eyes impossibly wide. “What.”

Melissa grabbed the phone from his numb fingers. “That’s not possible.” Scott peered over her shoulder, his dark eyebrows dipping low in a frown of consternation.

“I know it’s crazy,” Chris allowed seriously, “but I can assure you that it’s true. Lydia and Derek have been in close contact with Stiles’ midwife.”

“Midw—I need a drink,” The Sheriff mumbled, standing up, looking unfocused.

Melissa’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah you just sit back down. I got rid of all your booze. Deal with it sober, like the rest of us, John.”

It was like he didn’t even hear her, “My son is _pregnant_ ,” John’s voice cracked. “How did—how did that happen?”

“Well, when a Spark and an Alpha werewolf love each other very much—” Isaac started to say sarcastically.

There was a giggle from the corner where they had forgotten about Liam. “Pregnant--” The boy tittered.

The combined force of their collective glares made Liam contrite. He shrank back on his stool as if he could disappear.

“An Alpha--?” Scott realized about the same time as John’s face cleared with understanding. Scott began to growl. “Derek!”

“Derek Hale got my son pregnant?!” The Sheriff bellowed.

“Actually,” here Chris had to raise his voice over the combined growling and shouting going on, “Not even Alpha werewolves can get men pregnant. However it happened, it had to do with Stiles’ spark.”

“So is _that_ why Stiles ran away?” Melissa asked, her face earnest. “I mean, I could understand that freaking anyone out--!”

Chris could only shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You said Stiles was kidnapped,” John said, looking ill. “Who took him? Where did Lydia and Derek fly out to? Dammit, Chris! Give me something!”

“Right now, it won’t do anyone any good for you to show up. In fact it might make things worse. Derek has the cooperation of another local supernatural group and their allies. They are getting close to finding a location. There’s nothing we can do except wait for word.”

“I could call the local detachment—” John didn’t even get to finish that thought before he was given a similar glare treatment as Liam. He threw his hands in the air. “I can’t just do _nothing!!_ ”

“That’s exactly what we’re asking you to do,” Chris said, his no-nonsense tone cutting through the Sheriff’s burgeoning panic. “The situation is a tense one, and your son’s safety needs to be our priority. We can’t jeopardize Derek’s position by throwing unknown elements into the mix.”

Turning to level his gaze with Scott, Chris continued, “I will not allow anyone to interfere, no matter how well-intentioned the attempt may be. Stiles’ life, and the safety of others are on the line.”

Melissa looked between the two men, her gaze sharpening. She noticed the way her son’s jaw clenched. “Scott,” she said sharply. “No. You will listen to Chris.”

“Not even Deaton, Scott.” Chris added softly. If there was a _tiny_ thread of menace to his voice then so be it.

Scott threw up his arms petulantly, “Who is the Alpha here?!”

There was a scoffing sound at his shoulder, Chris turned his head to see Isaac sneering, “Not one worth listening to!”

Scott growled, his eyes flashing red.

To Chris’ surprise, Isaac growled back. The curly haired werewolf was usually more than comfortable at remaining quiet and watchful. Not outwardly challenging others.

The crackle of the familiar sound of electricity cut through the werewolf posturing quite effectively. Melissa stood holding a personal Taser with a determined scowl on her face. “If you two don’t calm down I will zap your furry butts!!” She growled angrily.

“Mom!” Scott cried, aghast.

Isaac smirked. He always liked Mama McCall.

“Do you even have a permit for that Mel?” John asked tiredly, rubbing at his forehead.

She looked caught out. “Um--”

Chris held out his hand, “Here. I can fix it so it will deliver a charge capable of ‘zapping furry butts’, right now you might manage to tickle a funny bone with that toy.”

Melissa shot him a wide, white-toothed smile. “Thanks!” She handed over the pink device without hesitation.

He reserved judgement. Melissa was fearless and would have made a great . . . he changed his thought before it finished.

While Chris disassembled the device with deft fingers, John mumbled under his breath about the law being ignored. Melissa snatched up the phone that had Stiles’ picture and gazed down at the boy who had become like a second son to her. She thumbed the sleeping face in the picture with a surge of fondness.

 _Stay safe Stiles. Help is coming._ Melissa thought wholeheartedly.

 

Stiles huddled in a tight ball in the rapidly cooling water, clenching his teeth hard so that they wouldn’t chatter. He refused to get out of the tub.

“You need to get out, Stiles. You’ll get sick,” The emissary said in an exasperated tone.

“I’ll get out as soon as **_he_** leaves,” Stiles hissed through white lips.

 _He_ , was Callum, who was leaning unconcerned against the wall.

“We both have to be here for this. You know perfectly why,” Shandra said with little remorse.

Stiles narrowed eyes hadn’t left Callum for a second. Not once throughout this whole nightmarish ordeal.

“Get out of the tub, little one. You don’t want me to have to go in there after you.” Callum rumbled warningly.

Stiles’ heartbeat fumbled. He remembered the struggle he put up when he realized that both kidnappers would be present during his bath. How he’d refused to undress in front of them, how he’d stumbled back as Callum pulled his chains to reel him in closer and just . . . tore Stiles’ clothes off with his other hand.

His shock hadn’t worn off until Callum dumped him into the filled tub. He came up, gasping for air, eyes wild. Beads of blood rapidly dispersed into the fragrant water as stinging cuts from Callum’s claws rose to the surface.

Now Stiles was almost in cardiac arrest at the thought of facing a second assault. “Just—just give me a towel.” Stiles plead weakly. He was getting dizzy from hyperventilating. “Promise I won’t—I won’t **_do_** anything!! I swear!!”

Shandra held the towel. “You step into it and I will wrap it around you.”

Stiles bit back a sob. That was the best he was going to get. His heart was beating painfully against his chest. He pressed a hand against it, worried that it might actually explode. Getting his long legs under him, Stiles shakily stood up, dragging his eyes away from the werewolf. He didn’t want to see the expression on Callum’s face now that his body was fully exposed.

He didn’t think his legs would hold if he tried to step over the side of the makeshift tub. Stiles’ looked at Shandra pleadingly, “I can’t—I—!” he gasped.

That was all the opening Callum needed. The werewolf swooped forward, grabbing the towel from Shandra’s fingers and wrapped a horror-struck Stiles in it before sweeping him into his arms and turning back to the bedroom nook.

Stiles went stiff as a board in the wolf’s arms and it was the only precursor Callum got before the young man went wild. It was a feral flurry of teeth, nails and fists as the captive Spark lashed out at his attacker.

“Shandra!” barked Callum, as he did his best to restrain the boy. It was surprisingly hard as there was no method to his fighting with his head in such a mess. He was just reacting in instinctive fear.

Callum knew that the boy could not seriously harm him (at least not off guard— _that_ memory still burned) and he was most likely to exhaust himself any moment now. But his heart beat was irregular and slightly alarming.

Sharing his concern, Shandra uncovered the syringe that was hidden under a facecloth. “Hold him still,” she ordered.

Seeing the emissary approach with the needle, Stiles cried out in wordless terror. Callum used the brief distraction to get his arms in a lock and expose the shoulder that Shandra needed for the needle. It was unfortunately for him, a position that put Stiles’ face close to his nipple, which the boy promptly tried to bite off in retaliation.

Once the needle had been depressed and Shandra withdrew, Callum yanked Stiles face away from his chest. “If you are that eager to play with my nipples, pup, I will be sure to indulge you!” he warned.

“Fuck off--!” Stiles panted, his wet hair still streaming into his face. Drugged lassitude was beginning to steal over his body. He had no more fight left.

Callum placed Stiles’ limp body on the bed and pulled the towel free. A noise of protest squawked from the young man’s lips. Wide honey brown eyes stared up at him in fear. “Relax, little one. I only want to dry you off before you catch a chill.” Callum soothed.

True to his word, Callum fluffed the towel through Stiles’ wet hair and then briefly over his face to catch up all the stray droplets. Stiles was helpless to stop the wolf from getting his thrills while ‘drying’ him off. It was clearly a thin excuse to touch his naked body. The burning hunger in those hazel eyes made Stiles want to vomit. Only he didn’t want a repeat of the bath.

All he could do was lay there in misery, and shiver.

As the towel swept over his arms, and chest, Stiles couldn’t even tense up as Callum focused his attention to Stiles’ dark puffy nipples.

“Will you make milk for your little one? I wonder.” Callum mused. A callused thumb swept over the peak of a nipple, already stiffened from the cool air. Stiles made a strangled noise, his fingers twitching abortively on the blanket. Shame swept hot over his cheeks and Stiles could only close his eyes against the image of the intimidating werewolf hunched over his naked body, teasing his nipples. “I can’t wait to see you suckle our child.”

 _Not your child!_ Stiles screamed in his head. _Never!_

Reluctantly, Callum pulled away from his now overly sensitive nipples and toweled off Stile’s mid-section with a bit more care. The swell was still not large exactly, but the protuberance of his baby belly was not one that could be ignored. He was four months along now.

“This is truly a wonder,” Callum breathed, laying his hands on Stiles’ belly. He lowered his head to listen to the fetal heartbeat trilling along. “We were meant to meet, Stiles. I believe this. I promise I will be a good mate.”

Stiles’ eyes burned with unshed tears. _Stop touching her!_ He wanted to shout.

Reaching down to adjust the considerable bulge tenting his pants, Callum quirked an almost invisible smile as he lowered his eyes to the sight of Stiles’ exposed sex. It was a good thing Stiles’ eyes were tightly closed. He missed the lustful flare of Callum’s beta blue eyes.

Nevertheless, Stiles gave a weak shudder as Callum toweled off his thighs and buttocks. He was lingering longer there than anywhere else. Stiles tried not to think about the weight of the stare he could practically feel crawling over his flesh.

“You are truly beautiful,” Callum praised him, his voice a low rumble.

“Callum, cover him up. It’s not exactly warm in here.” Shandra’s annoyed voice interrupted the werewolf’s quiet enjoyment.

“Are you cold, little one?” Callum posed his question to Stiles, knowing full well that he couldn’t answer. A sliver of golden iris peeked out from under wet lashes, that small glance held enough pure malice that anyone else would have been taken aback. Not so, for the second of the Pontrain Pack.

“I’ll warm you up,” breathed the werewolf, unbuttoning his pants.

At the sound of Callum removing his clothes, Stiles eyes flashed open in panic. He huffed out a strangled breath of protest as the mattress springs gave under the weight of the man climbing up to join him.

The comforter was pulled over their bodies as Callum settled behind Stiles, content to fix Stiles on his side so that he could drape his large, hot, body over the younger mans naked back.

His breath was coming in sharp pants, Stiles couldn’t do anything about how the werewolf pulled his body tightly against him. Callum’s briefs was the only barrier left between them. Seeing that Stiles could feel the iron hard length of Callum’s erection pressing into his backside, it wasn’t at all reassuring.    

 _Please don’t_ , Stiles begged silently. _Don’t do this to me. Please._

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Callum crooned. “Just relax for me. I’ll make you feel good.”

A wave of icy cold terror drenched Stiles in sweat.

One of Callum’s impossibly large hands splayed over Stiles belly and slipped downwards, cupping Stiles’ soft member. The hot grip elicited an involuntary reaction and Stiles breath hitched in shame and denial as his cock twitched and slowly began to swell in Callum’s rough palm.

“That’s it,” breathed Callum, his humid breath stirring goosebumps on Stiles’ bare shoulder. “Good mate.”

Hot despairing tears slipped from Stiles’ tightly pressed eyelids. _No._

There was the distant scrape of a chair against the floor. Stiles didn’t notice it until Shandra’s voice interrupted Callum’s slow torturous strokes. “Just don’t do anything that could harm the baby, Cal, and I won’t have to make you eat wolfsbane.”

The werewolf at his back huffed, like it was a joke. Not a threat.

It didn’t stop him, not like Stile’s hoped it would. Apparently the emissary cared even less than Stiles had given her credit for. All her careful preparations of sedatives, and potions; her protection only extended to his ability to carry the child to term. Possibly extended to preserving the ability to have other pregnancies. But he, as a person. As a _life_. Didn’t matter to her.

All things that Stiles had no room to think about through all the revulsion and fear he was consumed with right then.  

Callum reached between their bodies to push his briefs down his thick thighs. Stiles’ breath aborted in his throat at the first wet pass of pre-come was pressed into the flesh of one tightly gripped buttock. Stiles made a weak protesting sound that was swallowed up by the long groan of bliss Callum made in his ear. “Yesss!” The wolf growled lustfully. He thrust the dripping head of his hard cock up and down, along the crease of Stiles’ ass. “Fuck! The way you smell--! I can’t wait to plant myself deep inside you and never leave.”

Stiles’ mind was shrieking in rejection.

His reality flickered as the horror of what was happening to him became almost too much for his brain to handle. The only thread that kept him tied to the terrible present was the life he was protecting in his belly. That was more important than _anything._ If he had to—

He had to survive.

The baby had to make it safely to Derek. Stiles willed it with every fiber of his being.

Callum was nipping the skin of his shoulder with sharp teeth, edging closer and closer to the nape of his neck where Derek’s mark lay. Stiles felt his drugged heartbeat manage to stumble even despite the chemical sedation. That was _not_ a concession he was willing to make. Callum’s teeth would never mark Stiles like that.

**_NO._ **

Stiles willed his defiance towards the werewolf’s instinctive attempt to cover Derek’s mark.

A growl met his ears.

“This charm bag of yours,” Callum growled, “I will find a way to remove it when the child is born. And then I will mark you properly as my mate.”

Stiles realized with a small thrill of relief that his baby’s protection charm was keeping Callum’s teeth from getting anywhere near his neck. Must be the ash. _Thank you_ , he thought to whatever god’s were listening. He would take whatever they were willing to give him.

Refocusing himself on the lax body in his arms, Callum returned to coaxing Stiles to orgasm while he rutted eagerly against the boy. If Stiles had control of his body he would have been able to tighten all his muscles against the unwelcome touches, maybe he could have held out against Callum’s dry, too-tight grip. But he didn’t. His body was not his own and it was horrible to still be conscious when it betrayed him.

The telltale coil of warmth low in his belly built without his say so. It was coaxed out by Callum’s pumping fist and when it happened, Stiles made a broken horrified, noise as he spilled into the waiting palm.  

He felt Callum’s full-body clench as the werewolf came with a triumphant growling cry. Hot liquid splashed up Stiles’ bare back. He wanted to shudder in disgust but thankfully numbness was beginning to settle around Stiles’ mind like a protective cocoon. He stared blindly at the boards of the wall opposite him and disconnected.

He had one odd thought before his brain went silent.

_The chains are spark proof. But. Are they werewolf proof?_

“You went to the forest and have not come back, and then I saw you last time, I was the golden image of black hair and green eyes I love only you,” Lydia was mumbling. 

Derek was hunched over at the kitchen table feeling helpless. Lydia had been like this since her scream. He had no idea how to help her. He was feeling the lack of sleep pretty sharply now but he couldn’t even _think_ of sleep. Not with Stiles out there. Not with Lydia’s scream still echoing in his head.

“But I have not seen my boy—my beloved,” she whispered on. Her green eyes gone distant. “I have not seen my boy.”

For the moment he was alone in the kitchen with her. The others were preparing to move. If Lydia didn’t snap out of it, she would have to remain here at the house.

He would be heading out into the swamp with Stiles’ new pack. With Bastien and Ransom. He would be taking Danny and Jackson with him. Lydia too, if she came out of her Banshee trance before they left. Peter was meeting with the DeMolay Alpha, Juliette and heading to Alpha Tracy’s mansion in Uptown for a surprise faceoff.

As the minutes ticked down Derek found himself getting even more restless. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He needed to be doing something. He needed to be out there searching for Stiles.

“Lydia, please.” Derek urged in his quiet voice, “Come back to us. We need you.”

She made no sign she even heard him. It was like Lydia wasn’t even there.

“Her connection with Stiles is surprisingly strong,” Peter said, measuringly.

Derek refrained from flinching. He hadn’t even heard his uncle’s return, he’d been so focused on his second.

He didn’t want to think of how her words were connected to Stiles. They were too close. Too vulnerable. If they were from Stiles . . .

They made Derek want to howl with grief. It was thick in his throat.

“Peter—” Derek started harshly.

“We’re ready.” His turn-coat uncle cut him off. “You’ll need to hurry. If a transmission makes it from the house to Stiles’ kidnappers before you can get to him, it may give them enough of a head start to disappear again.”

The expression on Derek’s face was ugly. “It won’t happen. They are not getting away from me this time.” He meant it. If he had to turn into a fucking swamp Kanima those sick fuckers were not getting away from him again. He would claw Louisiana apart to find his mate.

Surprisingly, Peter nodded. His eyes were flinty with determination. “Let’s do it then.”

Lydia showed no signs of returning to clarity. Derek was loathe to leave her behind but Ransom reassured him that the house was warded and she would be protected in their absence. Danny hovered back reluctantly, giving Lydia a concerned kiss on the temple before following Derek towards the front of the house where everyone was gathering.

“How is she?” Jackson asked his ex-best friend hesitantly.

“She’ll be ok,” Danny said confidently. “Lydia’s got this.”

Bastien was in the doorway, a rucksack of supplies over one shoulder. “Juliette has a boat waiting for us at the dock. If Danny can guide us—we should get to the property he uploaded to the gps--”

They were all heading for the door when all of a sudden there was a knock. Everyone froze. There was an exchange of mystified glances. They weren’t expecting anyone.

Ransom stepped forward, hesitantly placing her hand on the door handle. She cracked the front door open.

“Lou--?” She exclaimed in surprise.

The zombie was standing on Ransom’s porch with a subdued smile on his skeletal face.

Derek growled low at the unfamiliar creature. The threatening sound was cut off in sharply by a short slashing gesture from Bastien. Derek was too surprised to question it.

“What are you doing here Lou?” Ransom opened the door wider.

In answer, the silent zombie held out a piece of paper.

Ransom accepted the note with a questioning glance. She frowned at the words. Then harrumphed. She exchanged a look with Bastien, “Lee sent him. He want’s Lou to protect the house until nightfall.”

“That’s good,” Bastien replied. “He can watch Lydia.”

“What?” Derek barked.

Ransom turned to face the rest of them more completely. “This is Lou. To keep a story short, he’s a zombie that protects a vampire coven. A coven that I have an accord with. He has been sent to protect my house and its occupants. Since _we’re_ not going to be here, that means Lydia will have someone to watch over her.”

“I can’t trust him with a member of my pack!” Derek protested hotly, reeling at the casual mention of zombies and vampires in the same breath.

Peter placed a hand on his shoulder, “He has no designs except what he’s been ordered to do. Lydia will be fine.”

Shrugging off Peter’s hand, Derek snarled. He was feeling cornered.

Danny stepped forward warily. “I hate to agree but we don’t have a choice. We don’t have time to spare if we want to get to Stiles.”

Derek curled his lips over his sharp teeth. He hated this. He hated when his pack was in danger. If he could trade places with them, he would do it in a heartbeat. “Fine.” He snarled. “But if anything happens to Lydia I will kill him—again.”

“Okay. Whatever, let’s go!” Ransom saying impatiently, waving them through the doorway.

 

He didn’t want to wake up. It seemed he didn’t get a choice about that either.

Stiles blinked blearily up at the ceiling, aware enough to know that he was alone in the bed. It didn’t comfort him to know this anymore. He could feel the pull on his back where the . . . where _it_ was dried on his skin. He didn’t want to move and become more aware of how dirty he was, so he held perfectly still and kept his breathing slow and deep.

He could hear Shandra and Callum talking in low voices, just beyond his bed. He didn’t bother looking. He didn’t want to see either kidnapper. He was trying to make his fractured thoughts stick together. Seeing them would make him shatter again.

It was like standing on the edge of a precipice. Only it dropped off in both directions. He couldn’t move in either direction without falling.

He couldn’t stay. They wanted his baby. She needed her Alpha. He couldn’t let Callum poison her with his touch. He couldn’t.

The pouch at his neck was warm. It was a tiny glowing comfort in this cold cabin. It was trying to remind him of something. There were words, thoughts that his brain was trying, and failing, to piece together.

Something about his chains. His spark.

Stiles was so tired. Alone.

No. Not alone. _Kochanie. Moya malutka kochanie._ He knew his spark was bound, but he could see hers. His little moon bug was bright like a star. She was beautiful.

Chains.

Stiles eyes came to rest on his limp wrists. The silver that tightly bound his thin wrists. The ugly red chafe marks where they dug into his pale skin. The chains bound his spark.

His daughter was likely part spark and part werewolf. Or full both. If she was a werewolf—

He blinked.  

 _Kochanie, could you help your Tatinek?_ He asked her spark silently. _Can you make me like you?_

It was such a long shot.

He pictured himself as a werewolf, strong and fierce. With the ability to break the chains that held them prisoner.

He hadn’t ever wanted the bite. Not really. But this. This was for his child. This was for her safety. With his belief guiding hers along, maybe. Just maybe—

Something was happening.

His whole body was on _fire._ It took everything Stiles had not to make a sound as he curled tighter, drawing in on himself in agony. He curled around his belly protectively. His hands gripped fistfuls of sheets white-knuckled.

This was nothing like he imagined. Scott never mentioned turning into a werewolf felt like _this--!_

It was agony. It was like his whole body was reforming. Ripping apart at the seams and revealing something new underneath. Something sharp, and wary, and cunning.

It terrified him.

Stiles was certain he’d made a mistake.

He couldn’t be silent any more. It was too much to contain. He panted, fighting the urge; but finally Stiles threw his head back and

—gave a pitiful screeching wail.

In fact he startled himself so much at the alarming sound that he scrambled backwards and found himself pitching back off the bed with an alarmed bark.

Wait.

_What--?_

In the ensuing panicked scramble, he was unprepared to find himself in use of four legs, instead of the prerequisite two. Stiles thumped painfully into several items before his brain caught up with his state. He was some kind of creature! He tried to make out what he was but the alarmed shouts of the other occupants of the cabin alerted him to the danger he was in. Stiles peered out from behind the leg of the bed he was hiding behind and saw Callum charging towards him, Shandra not far behind.

His instincts had him shooting out from his hiding place towards the cracked open front door before his brain had even made the cognitive leap. He was following his nose—following the trail of fresh air that lead him away from the two large threats that loomed up alarmingly behind him.

It was a mad scramble but Stiles squeezed through the small opening. He yelped as someone tried to grab him, claws tearing at his hindquarters. He skittered onto the unfamiliar ground and let his nose be his guide.

_Away._

_Away._

_Must get away._

 

Lou placed a cup of hot tea in front of Lydia who was still murmuring. She was still lost in between worlds, hearing nothing but the song carried on the air. The web that stretched between her and Stiles was taut, trembling with premonition. The words were changing. She knew they weren’t supposed to change. The dark haired lady said so.

“I went to the forest I saw a fox . . . I went to the forest I saw a fox . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That being said I am trying to complete a Xmas one-shot Sterek kid fic so--


	22. Part One - Reach For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Violence warning. And the usual trigger warnings to be safe. As they say in Anime: Ikkuzo!! 
> 
> Song to read by: Nights like this - W. Darling
> 
> Unbeta'd

Sitting in the passenger seat of a silver Mercedes, Peter couldn’t help feeling like he got off lightly. The rest of the motley crew was headed out into mosquito-rich swamp land and here he was in the company of a very lovely seeming Alpha, on his way to pay a stern talking to (or thinly veiled threats—details), to the Pontrain Alpha, this so called _Bo Tracy_.

“So. Peter. I’ve heard very little about you recently,” Alpha Juliette DeMolay broke the silence. “What kind of projects keep you busy in Beacon Hills?”

His lips quirked. Really, how could he resist? “Well, Juliette. I killed the bitch hunter that murdered the rest of my family. Bit a boy while I was feral that turned out to be a True Alpha. Was incinerated by his best friend and had my throat slashed by my nephew but. I got better.”

To her credit, the DeMolay Alpha disguised her shock quickly.

“That’s certainly more . . . adventurous than what we’re used to around here.” She admitted, giving him the side-eye. Her chocolate brown eyes were not fearful in the least. Peter was delighted.

“Really? Here in the murder capital—? I would think there’s more going on here than in our little corner of California.” He didn’t even mention _half_ of the things that Beacon Hills had seen in the past three years.

The Alpha, Juliette, dipped her chin in acknowledgement as she turned the car left onto another street. “Ah. Different kind of _more_ , I think you’ll find,” she alluded wryly.

“What about yourself,” Peter turned the conversation around. “What does the Alpha of a founding New Orleans pack do to pass the time?”

“I’m a senior partner in a local law firm; Adrieaux, Loup & Novitski” She answered. Then with a mischievous twist of her full lips she added, “But I make a mean Chicken Rochambeau.”

Peter was caught between wanting to laugh in disbelief at the outrageous name of the law firm or genuinely smile at the admission of cooking as a hobby. “I don’t know what that is but it sounds like it would be delicious,” he admitted, a little strangled by the odd expression he was sure his face was making. Thank god no one was around to witness it.

Her eyes stayed on the road but her lips curved upwards in a small pleased smile.

“We’ll be there in under a minute,” She announce suddenly. She pressed speaker on the cellphone laying on the dash. “Wash, are we still clear?”

A female voice replied, “Clear. I count five plus the Alpha. No change in activity.”

Peter’s lips thinned as his thoughts raced. If things went south there was an Alpha on either side, and five beta’s. Not great numbers, but not horrible. He was pretty wily. Good thing he came prepared.

Peter shared an expectant glance with Juliette as she pulled up to a set of pretentious iron gates.

He almost felt bad for the Pontrain Pack.

Almost.

 

The furious roar behind him spurred Stiles into speeds that he’d never before been able to manage on two feet. In fact it was a good thing he didn’t have time to think about the whole four-legged situation pure adrenaline took over and he was darting into the swamp.

His heart though. His heart was beating furiously fast. Like a hummingbirds. It couldn’t be healthy. All he could think about was escaping those giant hands. The ones that had touched him and made him feel things he didn’t want to feel—

He couldn’t let those hands catch him and the baby.

So headfirst into the strange land he went.

It was weird. So, so, weird.

Like, Stiles didn’t have to think about where next to put his feet. It was like some kind of sixth-sense told him, _there, not-there, there, there, woah—not there--!_ Some intuition let him know when the ground was firm, or when it was thinly disguised swamp water. The werewolf behind him didn’t have the same luxury. There was a lot of garbled swearing and crashing going on from his pursuer. It sounded like a furious Mack Truck snarling and growling after him.

Stiles also used his new size to his advantage. Instead of making his escape in somewhat of a direct line, he dove over boulders, scrambled around half submerged cypress trees, and scarpered through thickets of thorny bushes. It seemed to be working. The crashing sounds slowly got farther and farther behind.

Stiles didn’t stop running. He couldn’t. The fear was too overwhelming. He ran until he couldn’t run any more. He _literally_ ran himself into the ground.

Or tree trunk, anyways. Stiles spat out a mouthful of bitter loam. His sides were heaving and slick with sweat. Despite the fear and the exhaustion, the phantom promise of harm urged Stiles onward. He wedged his head into a tight crevasse under an exposed tree root and shoved detritus out of the way with his snout. When the hole was big enough for him to fit, Stiles squeezed his body into the tight space, and pressed fearfully against the back of the hollow.

Panting heavily, Stiles tried to make sense of everything. His thoughts were frantic and confused. They were like trying to catch a drifting leaf out of a roaring waterfall.

He’d tried to use the baby’s spark to make himself a werewolf—because the chains were made for a spark—something had gone **_wrong_** —!! He wasn’t a werewolf—?! How was he was in a full shift?! That shit wasn’t supposed to _happen_! Only Derek could pulled off a full shift—!!

But his baby was a born wolf—maybe that’s why—??

(All the while, in the cascade of his thoughts was the almost hysterical repetition of _Derek, Derek, Derek—!!_ )

Stiles snuffled curiously at his long black legs. They looked too skinny to be a wolf’s. And the tail—which curled around his form almost without say so—was orange. Orangeish. Orange and black. With a white tip.

His brain stuttered in recognition. _Fox_.

He was a fucking fox!!!

**_We’re trying to save your life, Ssstilesss—_ **

It was like the Nogitsune all over again.

With a distressed gekkering noise, Stiles tried to—to do what he wasn’t sure. Escape himself? Have an out-of-body experience? Voluntarily quit this shitty ride? Execute a jumping jack?

Whatever it was, in his blind panic he cracked his skull hard on something protruding from the dirt above his head and immediately blacked out.

 

It was a beautiful late autumn day. Disturbingly at odds with what was going on, Derek bitterly thought to himself. He brushed a frond of Spanish moss out of his face as the borrowed cabin cruiser cut through yet another overgrown waterway.

The sun was out, there were only a few wispy clouds in the sky. That is, when they could see it through the dense canopy of cypress trees overhead. The moderate temperature would likely plummet once the sun went down.

Everyone in the boat was quiet as they got closer to the destination. Tension was thick in the air. Danny sat on one of the wooden seats on the side of the boat, idly flipping his phone. The technical genius was no doubt wondering what he was doing in a boat full of supernatural creatures. Jackson was sitting awkwardly a short distance away, seemingly unable to strike up conversation with his ex-best friend.

Bastien was in the cabin steering the boat. After all it was his connection with the DeMolay pack that they even had this mode of transportation. Not that Derek could profess navigation skills as part of his resume; if he had even been of the frame of mind to do so in any case.

Ransom was _on top_ of the cabin, sitting criss-cross on the roof. It looked like she was meditating. Derek had no idea what pre-fight preparations a witch needed to make but the smell of dust and freshly spilled blood made him uneasy. He gave her plenty of space (although he distantly wondered how she managed not to get a face full of vegetation while he still caught an occasional stray branch or two).

Derek wanted to pace. But he was forced to glower at the passing scenery instead. The passage of time was _agonizing_. He couldn’t let himself think of how long Stiles had been alone with his kidnappers; his grip on his humanity was tenuous as it was.

He really noticed Lydia’s absence. He hoped his Second was safe back at the house. It was times like these, he could really use her level-headedness. Despite his physical advantage, Lydia (like Stiles) didn’t back down from her Alpha until she made her opinion clear. He was learning to respect that.

“We have maybe ten minutes,” Danny spoke up quietly.

Derek rose to his feet and cracked his neck impatiently. Without instruction, Bastien turned off the outboard motor and let the boat glide forward silently. They didn’t want to risk the kidnappers hearing their approach before they could get as close to their location as possible. Or _at all_ if they could.

The furious roar of a wolf in the distance burst their increasingly tense bubble.

“Stiles!” Derek barked out, already in beta-shift as the threat tapered off into the air.

The natural sounds of the swamp completely died off as the animals froze in self-preservation.

He paced from one end of the deck to the other helplessly. He couldn’t help Stiles from the boat. It would take too long. He had to get there **_now_** _!_

The others on the boat watched in disbelief as the Alpha dove into the brackish water.

“Derek!” Jackson shouted. He caught himself on the side of the boat as he watched the Alpha cut powerfully through the water towards the shore. “Fuck! He’s flipped his shit, we gotta go!”

Bastien was already starting the motor up, calling instructions to Danny, who would have to stay behind and watch the boat when they got to their destination.

 

“Where is he?” Shandra demanded sharply as Callum returned to the cabin empty-handed.

“He’s too fucking fast. I couldn’t catch him,” the werewolf snarled angrily. “I’m going back out there with infrared.”

“You better get him back,” Shandra threatened, “Tracy will kill us if we blow this plan!”

That made Callum whirl around, baring his sharp teeth, “What happened to the Spark-proof chains, Shan?” He accused her furiously. “Who exactly is Tracy going to be pissed at if we can’t get Stiles back?!”

Shandra speared her hands through her curly hair in frustration, “He shouldn’t have been able to do that!”

“I want. Him. Back.” Callum spat. “He’s _mine_. Get off your ass and help me find him!!”

Locating the infared goggles while Shandra grabbed her emissary bag of goodies, Callum uncaringly threw back the cabin doors in his sour mood and stalked out.

A low, threatening, growl made the hairs raise on the back of Callum’s neck. Instantly he lowered into a defensive stance, eyes sweeping his surroundings.

A crimson eyed gaze met his from the autumn colored foliage at the edge of the trees. Callum was momentarily frozen to his spot with disbelief as he watched the form of a huge black wolf slowly slink forward, clearly threatening attack.

Between one pace and the next, the huge wolf shifted. It was almost too quick for the eyes to follow. The sharp snap of bone, the audible flex of fur coat to firm flesh and suddenly there was a man proudly raising to his full height. Those red eyes fixed unwaveringly on Callum.

“Where. Is. Stiles.”

It could be said of Callum Sinclair that he’d never met a werewolf who had intimidated him.

That was true no longer.

However, his driving urge to possess Stiles was stronger than self-preservation. He was so close. He still had the taste of the boy on his lips. He refused to abandon the future he had envisioned with the fertile young man.

Callum distantly noticed as Shandra spotted the Alpha wolf and back up into the cabin. Probably looking for wolfsbane, or mountain ash, to assist him.

“He is yours no longer,” Callum announced boldly. “I have claimed the boy.”

The words made the blood red of the Alpha’s eyes darken like arterial spray. “If you have harmed him, I will kill you.”

He took a few steps closer to the cabin where Callum stood boldly in the threshold. With one ear, Callum could hear Shandra readying an attack. His lips twitched arrogantly, “I have only shown Stiles what a _pleasure_ it will be to be my mate.”

It was those words in combination with the first musky hint of sex, and overwhelming fear emanating from the open doorway that made Derek lose all control.

Giving a terrifyingly vicious roar, Derek lunged for Callum.

Trying to ignore how the cabin’s foundations shook under the Alpha’s call Callum dove out of the way, trying to arrange it so that his opponent’s back would be to his partner. Shandra was soundlessly inching forward, something clutched tightly in one fist. She needed a clear shot at the werewolf when his attention was divided.

“Does it bother you that I will raise your pup?” Callum dug with a breathless laugh as he barely dodged a wild swipe of claws. He calculated his move and rushed forward when the Alpha was off balance.

He wasn’t expecting the Alpha to be baiting him however, and caught a lung full of claws before he could scramble back. Laughing recklessly through a mouthful of blood, Callum spread his arms. Shandra was almost in place. “Then I will fill Stiles with MY pups. I will keep him full of my cock, and my seed--!”

The feral snarl was all the warning Callum got before the Alpha slammed him to the ground. Callum hawked a red mouthful to the grass beside him. His sneer was gruesome. “You’re too late--!”

Shandra drew back her arm as Derek punched Callum in the face. He was out of control, feral. He made no sign that he noticed a threat creeping up behind him.

Just as Shandra’s fingers began to loosen in preparation to throw, a hand snatched her arm from behind.

“Not so fast, bitch!” Ransom announced. She slammed the butt of her athame against Shandra’s wrist bone. With a cry of pain, the emissary dropped the handful of mountain ash she was preparing to trap Derek with.

Still holding onto Shandra’s numb arm, Ransom wasted no time. With her athame aloft and her veve tattoo’s glowing she chanted, “ _Mwen rele sou Erzulie d'en Gato, feròs defendor nan fanm viktim abi ak timoun yo sèvi jistis sou pake a Pontrain--!_ ” She used the blade to slash across the emissary’s palm. “ _Prete m 'fòs kouraj ou._ ”

Shandra’s scream was blood curling. “What did you do--!!” Her eyes were wild.

Ransom released her, satisfied the woman was now harmless. “My blade was coated with snake dust. Thanks to Loa, you are now bound from your powers. Erzulie is not happy with your straying from your so called ‘path of balance’. You have harmed one of hers and now she demands sacrifice.”

“Stiles isn’t here!!” Bastien’s worried voice came from the cabin.

“What?!” Ransom turned away from the woman to stare unbelievingly at her pack mate. “What do you mean he’s not here?!”

Bastian was pacing, his brow heavy with beta-shift, “He’s not here!” He growled sharply, almost overwhelmed by the telling scents within the small cabin.

Derek rolled by with Callum impaled on his claws, the werewolf kidnapper was looking worse for wear. Jackson was hovering in the background, half-shifted in the deepening shadows waiting for his turn.

“Oh god,” Ransom said under her breath, her wide eyes scanned the surrounding swamp as the sun clung to the horizon. “Stiles, where are you?”

She realized she had to get Derek’s attention back from vengefully pounding the snot out of Callum. How the hell do you get the attention of a feral werewolf? Her eyes darted around, searching. They zeroed in on a crumpled up pair of jeans on the floor inside the cabin. She recognized the stretchy band of fabric at the waistline. Stiles’ jeans. Ransom ran in to snatch them up.

“Derek!” Ransom yelled, skidding to a stop outside the ill-defined warzone. “We need to find Stiles before it gets too cold! Stop screwing around!” She waved the torn jeans around, realizing too late that the sight of them might infuriate the Alpha even further.

His head snapped up and zeroed in on the crumpled bunch of fabric in her hands with laser-like focus. “Stiles,” he rumbled the name through a mouth full of sharp teeth.

Callum tried unsuccessfully to roll the Alpha off of him but he was too weakened by blood loss. His gamble that Shandra would be able to trap the pissed off Alpha had failed spectacularly. As a beta wolf, even a Second such as himself, he was no match for an Alpha on a good day. This one was looking for his pregnant mate. The mate _he_ had assaulted.

He was overpowered, and outnumbered. He was toast. And he knew it.

But as he felt the Alpha’s long claws begin to withdraw from deep within the wall of his chest, he felt the last malicious flicker of energy give him voice. “You practically gift wrapped him. For me. _Derek—_ ” He harshly bit out the name that Stiles had often called out for in his sleep.

The attention that had been withdrawing from him returned with a vengeance. Those terrible red eyes returned to him and flared with savagery. The claws that were half withdrawn from his chest plunged deeper. Callum choked on blood, refusing to drop his eyes till the end.

 **“Stiles!”** Derek snarled, tearing through Callum’s body with a wrench of his arm.

Shandra screamed as her cousin was violently dismembered.

Bastian grabbed the woman, “Where is Stiles? What did you do to him?!” He demanded through his fangs.

She dragged her eyes from Callum’s gruesome remains, “He—he—changed form. Stiles. Got away from Cal-Callum!” Shandra’s teeth chattered.

“What do you mean? _Changed form?_ What form?” Bastien gave her a little shake, his eyes flaring gold.

It was no good, the neutralized emissary was in shock.

Meanwhile, Derek was approaching Ransom. She locked her elbows in order not to drop the jeans in fright. The sight of the gore-encrusted, naked Alpha werewolf stalking closer was an intimidating one. She had to admit she was spooked.

He took the bundle of fabric from her with surprising care. Lifting it to his face, Derek deeply took in the fresh scent of Stiles. Underneath the fear, and the frustrated anger was the pure concentration of his anchor. His mate.

He looked towards the trees. _Stiles._

Ransom watched Derek do the weird four-legged, four-limbed (?) lope into the trees. She turned to the two remaining werewolves. “Well? Follow him! He’s going to find Stiles!” She cried in exasperation. “I can handle _her_ by myself.” She made a vague gesture at the emissary.

Bastian dipped his head in acknowledgement and took off. Jackson close at his heels.

Watching them go, Ransom chewed at her lips anxiously. _“Erzulie gid yo,_ ” she whispered to the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if I piss anyone off for my Google-fu version of Ransom's Creole. Yes she's of Russian decent, which means she's at least part white chick but she is a witch. In New Orleans, with extensive veve tattoos and a personal connection to Maman Brigitte. I'm not trying to culturally appropriate anything, just write an interesting story. FYI: Ransom can speak a bit of Russian, English (duh), Haitian Creole and Cajun French.
> 
> Ransom Translations:  
> 1) I call upon Erzulie d'en Tort, fierce defender of abused women and children to serve justice upon the Pontrain pack.  
> 2) Lend me your strength.  
> 3) Erzulie guide you.


	23. Part Two - Reach For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song to read by: Skeletons - W. Darling

“Juliette! What a lovely surprise!”

Peter’s hackles rose as the Pontrain Alpha descended the front steps of his very pretentious white mansion to meet the two of them.

The Alpha was nondescript in his human visage. Attractive and in his mid-forties, Bo Tracy looked to be in good health. He was going grey and Peter had to admit, he was doing so gracefully. But there was something . . . off about his eyes. They were pale blue, but _flat_ ; like any emotion he was showing was only a mask.

It was the face of a killer.

Ironically, Peter felt himself relax. _This_ was his territory.

Juliette, it seemed, had her own method for handling Alpha Tracy.

“Cousin, it’s been too long,” she demurred with a modest peck on his cheek.

“Nonsense,” the Alpha dismissed, returning the gesture casually. “You saw me at the last charity ball.”

“It’s not the same and you know it,” Juliette waved away dismissively.

Peter was impressed and amused by Alpha Juliette’s chameleon abilities. The woman could go from confident fearless Alpha to a freckle faced ingénue just by changing her posture. She was fascinating.

He forced himself to focus on his company.

“And who’s this?” Alpha Tracy looked over at him.

“Um, this is my friend Peter.” Juliette, looked around deliberately, “Do you think we could talk. In private?”

Alpha Tracy’s brows rose at her forwardness.

She added meaningfully, “It’s about the—rumors.”

While Juliette manipulated the other Alpha with a level of genius that frankly threatened to give him a half-chub, Peter did his best just to be himself. A calm, collected, asshole.

He took the bait. Tracy held out an arm in a gesture that said, ‘After you.’

Once they were ensconced in what Peter guessed to be Alpha Tracy’s office, Tracy leaned back in his mahogany chair and said, “I have to admit I’m intrigued by your visit.”

Peter remained aware there was a beta on the other side of the double doors. There was another heartbeat close by but he was distracted by the performance going on before him.

“I’m a little lost,” Juliette gave a breathy little laugh. “I mean, I’m not really sure what everyone has been talking about. They say you’re hiding a pregnant human _male_. Peter says the human is his nephews _mate_. I told him that wasn’t possible but--”

“Jules—darling,” Alpha Tracy interrupted her rambling with a locked jaw. “Who is your friend?”

“Peter Hale,” Peter spoke up with a toothy grin. “Pleasure.” He deliberately remained loose legged and cocky browed as he watched the emotions flicker across the Alpha’s face.

“Hale--?”

Those flat blue eyes narrowed as Tracy visibly considered where he’d heard the name before. Then they widened.

 _Bingo_ , Peter thought in satisfaction. _Give the man a prize_.

“Peter . . . Hale.” Alpha Tracy said through a mouthful of sharpening teeth. “Brother of Alpha Talia Hale from Beacon Hills—”

It wasn’t spoken as a question but the inflection might have been lost in the ensuing growl.

“Bo?” Juliette stuttered, as though she was shocked by his unhappy reaction.

“Mm—yes.” Peter confirmed, sounding bored.

“Why are you here?” The Alpha flashed his crimson eyes.

Oh please. Like that did anything to Peter. He barely refrained from the eye-roll.

“I’m making an unplanned stop in my vacation,” Peter drawled. He tapped his fingertips along the inside of his knee. “I heard about Stiles’ little predicament. I was going to ask him to join me. Make a motley little crew of Beacon Hills rejects—but you got to him first.”

“Rejects?” Alpha Tracy asked sharply.

Peter huffed a breath out his nose. “Yes. If you did your homework you’d know that Mitch Liska was a fake identity. _Stiles_ is also from Beacon Hills. A Spark, as you’ve no doubt figured out on your own. My nephew Derek is his mate. He is also an Alpha. ”

Tracy had recovered from his surprise. “Yes, we knew the father of the pup was an Alpha. That much was confirmed.” He waved at the air impatiently, “That doesn’t explain what you are doing by approaching me.”

“Without knowing all of the boring details, Stiles must have been kicked out of the pack,” Peter shrugged. “I thought we could be miserable together. He _is_ carrying my grandniece or nephew after all.”

“You’re not in the Pack?” Alpha Tracy’s eyes focused on him with skepticism.

Peter’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, “When your nephew rips your throat out and you have to resurrect yourself from the grave, priorities change.” He raised a shoulder. “But I’ve always been fascinated with Stiles. The boy is always doing something half-assed yet brilliant. This, however is the most _original_ of all his endeavors to date.”

“So you’re here to ask for Stiles.”

Peter regarded Tracy, “I’m here out of _curiosity_. I’d like to know what your plans are for the Spark and my future kin. If their safety is assured, I wouldn’t disagree to some kind of arrangement.”

Alpha Tracy’s eyebrows rose in blatant astonishment. “Forgive me, but that sounds rather callous--”

“More callous than an Alpha planning on breeding magical werewolf pups?” Peter leveled, “—from an unwilling Spark?”

“Touche,” Tracy murmured.

Juliette made a little noise of protest but both men ignored her. Peter, because he knew it was an act. Tracy because he didn’t see the younger Alpha with enough importance to hold his attention at the moment.

“So, shall we talk fees?” Peter leaned forward slightly. “Do I get a discount on the first pup due to family relation?” He grinned, his teeth white and gleaming.

Before they could make any further headway into this truly disturbing masquerade, Juliette leaned forward with a tiny frown on her forehead. “Bo—why do I—?” She stood up abruptly and the chair made a scraping noise she knocked it back.

Alpha Tracy grew tense at Juliette’s sudden reaction.

Her eyes were red when they looked back at him. “Why do I smell Sophie Renard?” She demanded.

Peter immediately was on alert. Wasn’t that the midwife’s mother? He’d only met her in passing at Ransom’s house before she’d been called out on a follow-up visit that Bastien was supposed to take.

That couldn’t mean anything good.

Tracy was rising to his feet slowly in response to Juliette’s unspoken challenge. His eyes were red now as well. “How do you think the pup was going to be delivered? I’m no nurse.” He snarled.

“You kidnapped a member of the Renard Pack?!” Juliette spit out harshly. “ _Couillon_!”

Alpha Tracy roared, half-shifted, “Need I remind you, _cousin_ , whose territory you are in?”

“No, indeed you do not. Your territory is now at war with the New Orleans Alliance,” Juliette informed him around needle sharp teeth. “Consider this your only warning. Return the boy and the midwife to us unharmed.”

Barking out an incredulous laugh, Tracy said, “You’ll never find him. Not without my help. I suggest you leave before you bite off more than you can chew.”

“Really?” Peter drawled. “Honestly you’re too corny to be Alpha. Someone needs to put you out of your misery.”

And if they had planned it that way, it was this very moment that Alpha Tracy staggered. He placed his hand over his heart, looking as though someone had just ripped something free from his chest.

“Callum--” he uttered in disbelief. His crimson eyes lifted. “My second. He’s dead.”

Peter hid his surprise. That meant the other half of their party was successful. Huh. Go team.

“My nephew has a lot to learn about, well, _everything_. But giving up is not a Hale trait,” Peter shrugged. “He found Stiles. Gigs up.”

With nothing left to lose, Tracy transformed into his Alpha form. With one enraged swing, he smashed his desk out of the way and began to advance on the two of them. As Alpha Juliette begin her own transformation, Peter threw up his arm, halting her. He revealed what he had hidden up the sleeve of his jacket.

Juliette’s eyes widened at the sight of the glass vials.

“I’ve done a lot of positive affirmations in order to be able to do this,” Peter commented as he drew back his arm and loosed his first test tube incendiary. “Stiles better appreciate this!” He flung his arm forward and watched as the tube shattered in Alpha Tracy’s face. Peter winced as the resulting fireball incited a rather short-lived scream. If he didn’t examine the results too closely, no one would fault him.

Juliette nodded as he left the opportunity open for her to dart forward and slash her extended claws through the dying Alpha’s raw and exposed throat. Alpha Tracy was in too much agony to even notice his approaching demise.

With a nasty wet gurgle, the Alpha of the Pontrain Pack drew his last breath. Juliette threw her head back and roared their victory.

Peter found himself adjusting the uncomfortable hard on he had from Juliette’s roar. He wasn’t even going to question how the lingering scent of barbequed werewolf didn’t even seem to dull the ache.

He cleared his throat, making an attempt to sound unaffected. “Where do we look for the midwife?”

Juliette tossed her head lightly, returning to her human features effortlessly. “Basement,” she replied. “Bo had a rather extensive wine cellar that he rarely used. She’s likely down there.”

He couldn’t help the eye-roll this time. “Of course, how original.”

When they opened the doors to the hallway, they found the beta that had been guarding the door; forced into submission by someone clearly from the DeMolay Pack.

“Wash?” Juliette inquired. She was meticulously wiping her bloody hands off on a towel that another beta quickly offered her.

“I sent Jayne to retrieve Ms. Sophie,” the woman named Wash responded. She tapped her earpiece in explanation.

Juliette nodded. “Thank you.” She glanced over at Peter. “Vacation?”

Peter gave a little shrug. “I’m sure my son will forgive me if we don’t make it to Jellystone Park. I think he’d be happier if we wait around for Mardi Gras.”

“That’s in five months!” Juliette exclaimed, her voice filled with startled laughter.

Never one for subtlety, Peter gave her a slow spreading smile. “I heard there’s an Alpha who might appreciate some help organizing of what’s left of the Pontrain pack.”

 

Derek barely made note of his surroundings as they passed him in a blur. Stiles scent was fresh. He refused to lose track of his mate when he was so _close_ to the source. He couldn’t lose him again. His wolf was too close to the surface and he was barely holding on to what was left of his tattered humanity. Losing him now would destroy him for good.

_Stiles. Stiles. Stiles._

His paws beat out the refrain as he ate up the distance between them.

His mind was still howling with rage over what he’d scented back at the cabin; at the last words spoken by the posturing beta he’d ripped apart for the offence. That beta had assaulted Stiles. The smell had been nauseatingly _thick_ in the air. As thick as Stiles’ unwillingness.

He had no idea what he would find. He could admit that he was terrified.

Derek’s feral mind had no spare thought to how Stiles had made it this far out in the swamp. All it knew was that it was getting closer. The scent trail was getting sloppier as Stiles must have weakened. There was less and less weaving around obstacles and more and more scent deposits. Like Stiles had been running into things in his exhaustion.

Derek’s mouth was open to catch the scent but his breath panted out his distress.

He noted Jackson and Bastien were catching up. Their beta-shifted sounds were less subtle than his full-shift form. It couldn’t be easy for their human bodies to make their way through the treacherous and misleading landscape of the bayou.

In fact, how _had_ Stiles gotten so far--?

The scent trail ended and Derek made an anxious circuit around the trees where Stiles scent abruptly disappeared. There was a disturbance of leaves at the base of one cypress but there was no way Stiles would have fit into that tiny little fox hole.

Derek whined in distress. He didn’t know where to go next. His mate was nowhere to be seen.

He tipped back his head and let out a deep mournful howl.

 

Stiles twitched into wakefulness. His hair stood on end in alarm. Something was wrong.

 _Ow_ , besides his aching head.

There was a wolf howling outside his hideout.

That should have made him freeze with self-preservation, knowing that he was being chased by Callum, but Stiles _knew_ that howl.

Well, he didn’t know it, know it. But it sounded a lot like Derek Hales Alpha roar.

Only sadder.

Stiles opened his mouth to yell, “Derek!”

But what actually came out was more like a tortured, **_“Aayyeeeahhh!!!”_**

Holy fucking shit what was that awful noise?!

Right. He was a fucking _fox._

Suddenly he was in no hurry to leave his dirt hole. Maybe he should stay right where he was. Foxes and tree roots, it seemed like poetic justice. Stiles dropped his head between his paws, dejected.

It didn’t seem like he had much choice in the matter. As soon as he decided eating voles couldn’t be that much of a hardship, a snuffling sound came from the entrance of his hastily dug hole. Stiles squirmed backwards in alarm.

A wet black nose appeared, the owner sniffing and whining plaintively through the closed yet still intimidating muzzle.

 _Derek?!_ Stiles human brain supplied helpfully.

While the rest of him suddenly went the route of; _fox den, carrying kit, **predator**_ **.**

The result wasn’t pretty.

 

Derek suddenly found himself with a face full of wide-eyed, sharp clawed, snarling fox.

He was shocked right out of his shift.

Sprawled out in the dirt, naked, with his face bleeding, Derek could only stare uncomprehendingly at the hole in the ground where the sound of angry gekkering was coming from.

“I guess I deserved that,” he said breathlessly.

Which is how Bastien and Jackson found him.

“Stiles?” Derek called urgently. “Please come out.”

Jackson and Bastien shared a concerned look. Derek was talking to a tree root.

“Oooh, shiit.” Jackson breathed, horrified. “Hale has finally lost his marbles.”

Derek spared them a flash of teeth in warning but he didn’t dare growl in case he frightened Stiles further. “You’re safe now. I swear it.” He urged. “I need to take care of your injuries, Stiles. I can smell you’re hurt. _Please._ ”

Bastien cocked his head as Stiles scent did in fact confirm that he was present. Why wasn’t he visible? He took a step forward. “Stiles?” He said hesitantly.

A rather frantic sounding fox kicked dirt out of the shallow burrow as if in protest.

“Oh my god,” Jackson groaned, “You’re here harassing woodland creatures when you’re supposed to be looking for--!”

Bastien cautiously held his hand up, stopping Jackson in mid-rant.

An Alpha wolf would never mistake its mate.

“Derek—is Stiles the fox?” Bastien asked carefully.

They ignored Jackson’s incredulous sputtering. Turning into a fox was not the most surprising thing the Spark had done in the last few months.

Derek’s attention was fully on the freshly dug hole, he either didn’t hear Bastien’s question or he ignored him in order to continue coaxing Stiles from his hiding spot.

“Stiles please,” Derek said softly, backing up only a short distance and pressing his chest to the ground. “You’re safe. No one can hurt you now. Please come out and let me—us take care of you.”

Everyone held their breath as tiny black whiskers twitched ever so slowly out the entrance. Every muscle in Derek’s body tensed in anticipation and Bastien tried not to be distracted by the glorious Alpha ass flexing in front of him.

A tiny nose was followed by a tiny head, a _fox head,_ with nervous swiveling red and black tipped ears.

Bastien didn’t know what he was expecting but he was still astounded when the fox peered suspiciously out of the hole with Stile’s dark golden eyes. “Stiles--!” He breathed in disbelief.

Stiles gave a short bark. Then looked abashed by the noise he made and ducked back into the hole. Derek looked crestfallen by the retreat.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jackson exclaimed. “Stilinski?!” He snorted a laugh.

Before anyone realized what was going on the ball of fur was rocketing out of the den towards the Beta. Jackson gave a shout of alarm as Stiles launched himself at him, a puffed up tornado of furious teeth and claws.

“Ow what the fuck!!” Jackson howled, falling back on his ass in the dirt. “Get him off me!”

Derek scrambled over to try to help, but he hovered, unwilling to hurt Stiles accidentally.

Giving another pained shout, Jackson lifted up an arm, the one that Stiles had sunk his teeth into and was now hanging from.

“Careful!!” Bastien was tense as Derek approached the pair with his hands out.

Stiles’ eyes watched Derek warily. He growled around his mouthful of Jackson.

“Fuck me! Get Stilinski off!!” Jackson whined. To his credit, he made no move to fling the fox off, even though it had to be damn near reflexive.

Ever so carefully, Derek took a hold of Stiles by his scruff. Instantly the fox went limp in the Alpha’s grip. He gave a little gurgling whine of protest.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek said soothingly, “You can bite Jax later if you want _.” Hell, you can bite me too if it will make you feel better.”_

With a handful of fox . . . Stiles, Derek found himself at a loss for what to do next. He looked at Bastien helplessly.

“Stiles, can you . . . change back?” Bastien directed his question to the stressed out looking fox.

The baring of teeth would indicate the answer was a distinct no.

“Okay,” Bastien tried not to look outwardly concerned. He didn’t want to cause Stiles any more stress than necessary. “It will be easier to carry him back like a fox. Do you . . . want my shirt to wrap him up in?” Since Derek was distinctly lacking in anything to wrap Stiles up in.

This time it was the Alpha’s turn to give a show of fang. “That won’t be necessary,” Derek growled. He tucked Stiles’ into the curve of one massive bicep. “I’ll keep him warm.”

As much as he might want to stick up for his friend’s autonomy. This was not the time. Bastien wisely kept his mouth shut. The Alpha was tightly wound and threatening his ability to care for his injured mate was not a move he wished to make.

Even though he knew next to nothing about the father of Stiles’ child, Bastien had yet to see anything that made him think the Alpha would harm Stiles deliberately. His concern for Stiles was genuine. It made him wonder about the circumstances that made the young man flee from his home in such obvious despair.

“Can Danny get the boat closer to where we are?” Jackson sighed, wiping the remains of Stiles’ teeth marks from his forearm. “I’m really not looking forward to walking back in the dark.”

“You’re a werewolf, idiot.” Derek said, exasperated. “You can see in the dark.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to walk,” Jackson muttered under his breath.

Derek could feel the minute tremors passing through Stiles’ tiny body. “We need to hurry. I don’t think he’s doing too well,” he said, worried. He clasped a large hand over Stiles’ curled up form.

Bastien gave a short nod, his blue eyes lingering on Stiles. “Let’s go.”

 

Blinking rapidly, Lydia found herself sitting alone at the kitchen table in a vaguely familiar kitchen. She frowned. “Derek?”

A rustle of clothing alerted her to the fact she wasn’t completely alone. She turned her head to see a man with a painted face, approaching her with a tea cup. A strangled noise aborted in the back of her throat as she took in the skull face and top hat. Her senses went haywire. He wasn’t completely human.

“Who are you?” She demanded. “Where are the others?”

The man set the tea cup, complete with tea (smelled like chamomile) in front of her on the table. He reached inside the jacket of his funeral coat and pulled out a piece of paper which he offered to her. She looked at him cautiously.

He was placid. She sensed no harmful energy so she accepted the paper cautiously.

Immediately she recognized Danny’s writing and relaxed.

            _We’ve gone out to get Stiles. Derek said he didn’t dare take you while you having your ‘Banshee spell’ whatever the hell that is. So everyone except Peter is heading to the swamp. I’ve included the coordinates below. Peter has gone with Alpha DeMolay to the Pontrain Pack to see if they can neutralize the threat from there. Hopefully you’ll hear from us soon, Danny._

_Oh and this is Lou. He’s a Zombie._

_WTH_

Lydia folded the paper back up.

She didn’t remember much about going into a trance. It felt like how a dream felt, like it faded the more she woke up. She did have a strong sense that her friends, her Alpha, were on the way back.

And most concerning of all, she felt like she needed to collect first aid supplies.

“Lou?” She said carefully. “Do you know where Ransom keeps her first aid? I’m also going to need clean towels and blankets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couillon - means 'idiot' or 'fool'


	24. I don't believe you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fall (Interlude) & Will You Save Me? - The Birdsongs
> 
> Trigger Warnings to be aware of in this Ch: Rape/Assault/Non-Con/Kidnapping aftermath

The timing could’ve been better.

When Derek’s group finally made it back to Ransom’s house, they were exhausted and stressed out by the highly agitated fox in Derek’s arms. Stiles’ was whimpering around the mouthful of fingers he had nervously clamped down on. Derek refused to acknowledge any pain, giving Stiles anything he needed. He had no idea what damage Stiles could do to himself in this state if he was accidentally set loose so he resolutely held on to the boy in his fox form despite the tell-tale stinging that indicated sharp little teeth were gnawing through Derek’s skin.

Returning to the cabin had been time-consuming and the sight of Callum’s torn up corpse had not done Stiles any good mentally. Neither had the close proximity to their reluctant prisoner, the former emissary, Shandra. Derek had kept as much distance between them on the boat as possible, but he’d felt the tension growing in Stiles’ new animal form.

It had not been a pleasant ride back.

It was fortunate, Derek acknowledged, that the dark emissary had seemed to be wordless with some kind of shock. Either that or she didn’t dare provoke the way their group seemed to be edgily waiting for her to make a move. The knife gripped in Ransom’s fist certainly helped with that image.

So as the group tiredly emptied out of Peter’s truck and airstream combo onto the sidewalk, they looked up to see Alpha DeMolay’s black Mercedes pull up to the curb.  

“Mom?” Bastien called out in confusion. That confusion quickly morphed into rage as Sophie’s bruised jaw came into sight. “What the hell happened?!” He growled, his golden eyes flashing threateningly.

His accusing glare at Juliette and Peter did not go unnoticed by his mother. She put up a hand to quell the emotional jumping to conclusions. “It’s okay now Bas. They found me.” Sophie soothed him, not without a pained wince.

“Alpha Tracy apparently was thinking a little more ahead than we expected,” Peter offered.

“What?” Ransom gasped, alarmed. “Sophie--?!”

“I’ll be fine after a few ibuprofen,” the midwife assured them. “I promise. I’m okay.”

“Alpha Tracy?” Derek asked shortly.

“No longer a problem.” Peter tilted his head, his movement suddenly arrested by the sight of the fox in his nephews arms. His blue eyes widened. “Is that--?”

“Where’s Stiles?” Sophie asked worriedly at the same time as Peter came to his conclusion. “Did you not find him?”

The group fresh from the swamp shifted uncomfortably. “We did--” Ransom said hesitantly, her eyes shifting between Stiles and the newcomers.

Derek found himself rumbling a low growl protectively at the shift of attention.

Stiles, it seemed, responded to the vibration. He released Derek’s bloody fingers and geckered weakly back at the Alpha holding him.

“Oh, shit.” Peter said eloquently.

“Yeah,” Ransom said lamely.

“Shandra?” Juliette spoke up as she noticed the listless prisoner for the first time. Her voice was colored with disappointment. “I never would have guessed you would have been involved in this foolhardy plan.”

“The only reason the _emissary_ is still breathing is because Ransom bound her powers.” Derek spat darkly.

“And Callum?” Julliette asked, knowing from Tracy’s reaction earlier but still needing to hear the report.

Derek abruptly jerked his head.

“He did the unforgiveable,” Bastien added quietly.

Juliette’s lips tightened, “I’m sorry. My pack will secure the former emissary. She will not hurt anyone again.”

“I wish no disrespect, Alpha.” Ransom spoke up, “The emissary is already spoken for.”

Juliette blinked at her in surprise. “Oh?”

Ransom nodded grimly. “The Loa have demanded her to be turned over to Lee’s Coven.”

The DeMolay Alpha’s brows rose. That was a serious sentence indeed. She dipped her head grimly, “Very well.”

A creaking floorboard had the group looking up towards the house where Lydia was standing on the porch, “Are you going to stand out there all night or what?” the banshee asked impatiently. Her eyes were drawn by invisible bonds and lingering song to the fox. They widened in recognition.

Derek stepped forward at her silent admonishment. “Where’s the best place to put him, Lydia?” he asked her as he passed the shaken banshee.

“Through the kitchen up the stairs to the attic.” Came her hushed reply. “I prepared some things for him already.”

Grunting his thanks, Derek made his way through the house to the narrow staircase at the back of the house. He climbed the stairs, trying to ignore how a few pairs of feet seemed to follow despite his instinctual need to hide his injured mate from prying eyes. He knew Stiles would need more help than only he could provide.

Following Stiles familiar scent up to the open door on the landing, Derek carried the fox-form of the young man into what was clearly his bedroom. The concentrated scent of sweetgrass and lightning here was almost heady to Derek’s senses. It almost made him stumble.

Unsure whether or not it was safe to let go of Stiles just yet, Derek toed off his boots and sat carefully on the edge of Stiles’ rumpled up futon.

Stiles’ long black whiskers were twitching nervously as he peeked out from the crook of Derek’s elbow. He was still trembling, but Derek could tell the rigidity in his small form was slowly easing at the familiar surroundings. He made a small noise, an inquisitive _awk_ , and Derek placed a reassuring hand along his narrow back.

“Your back home, Stiles. It’s your room,” Derek said quietly. 

True to Lydia’s word, there was an assortment of first aid supplies waiting next to the bed. Towels, and bandages; even a basin of steaming water. Derek had to hand it to his second, she had certainly prepared for their return.

Although,

“This isn’t quite what I expected when my instincts said to have first aid on hand,” Lydia said quietly, looking at Stiles’ with an almost abashed look on her face. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate the bubble bath with quite the same appreciation.”

“If he doesn’t want it, I’ll gladly take it off his hands,” Ransom said tiredly.

It was just the five of them in the room. Derek, Stiles, Lydia, Ransom and Bastien. The rest were downstairs taking care of other matters.

“Can . . . can you Alpha roar him back into his human body?” Lydia asked Derek hesitantly.

Derek found himself rejecting the idea. The thought of it made his wolf whine. “No. He’s my mate. Not a beta. I can’t make him submit to my will like that. That would be--” A _betrayal._

Bastien looked at him with an favorable nod. “It would likely traumatize him further.” The blond werewolf agreed.

Making a tiny distressed noise, Ransom said, “Then how do we get him back? I don’t even know how _this_ happened?!” She waved her hands at Stiles’ fox form animatedly.

Stiles flicked his tail nervously at her movement. His amber eyes watched them warily.

Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath, searching for the inner strength to help him get through whatever came next. Despite how his wolf demanded he curl around his mate and never let go, Derek deliberately let his fingers relax around Stiles black furred ruff.

“Everyone stay still.” He commanded, in a sure, calm voice. Even without the Alpha timbre the sound held clear instruction that everyone in the room heeded instinctively. “Stiles may change back if he feels safe enough.”

As the Alpha’s grip on him loosened, Stiles remained still for another moment or two. He lashed his white tipped black tail back and forth anxiously. Then slowly, clearly expecting to be hauled back, Stiles’ crawled down off Derek’s lap and onto the bed.

His nose immediately buried into the rucked up sheets. After a single sneeze, Stiles began rooting around as though he was looking for something.

Bastien was the first to show signs of understanding what Stiles was searching for. His blue eyes cleared and he darted a quick indecipherable look at Derek. Ransom huffed impatiently as he left her in the dark.

Stiles dove into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed and began to wriggle around as though he was trying to wedge his body underneath. Derek assumed he was just looking for a safe place to burrow and was at least glad the fox wasn’t making an immediate run for it.

When the triangular pointed ears of the fox popped back out, they were framed by the leather cuff of a sleeve. A _familiar_ black sleeve.

Derek reached out with a disbelieving hand. It was _his_ leather jacket!

“Stiles--!” he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

Fox Stiles barked and twisted his head, unsuccessfully trying to wiggle his way back out of the sleeve. It was clear he was stuck.

Lydia blew a rude raspberry, “Clearly a disaster no matter what form he takes.”

Stiles snapped his teeth at her, but with his ears pushed almost flat to his head in his current attempt to retreat, it was the opposite of threatening.

Carefully Derek slipped his fingers around the edge of the cuff and Stiles’ delicate skull. With his thumb he carefully nudged the fox’s head back through the opening. He gave a small jerk at the tiny lick of gratitude he received in return. His lips twitched upwards at the gesture.

Leaning closer, Derek uncovered what the pillows had been hiding; his missing leather jacket. Now complete with a squirming fox. Stiles was burrowing, almost like he was trying to get comfortable. Or surround himself in Derek’s scent.

That thought made Derek swallow convulsively. His wolf liked the thought. Very much.

But he didn’t have time to examine his thoughts further. The fox that had just let out a satisfied sigh and tucked a nose under the soft fur of its tail suddenly began to shift and undulate into a larger and less furred form.

“gekeggk Fuck--!!” Stiles shouted as he sprawled naked and inelegantly on the spill of pillows at the head of his bed.

He blinked at them for a few moments before he seemed to realize what had happened. His hand searched blindly for something and inevitably pulled the jacket into his exposed lap to hide his nakedness from their stares.

There was a chorus of his name and a relieved group of friends rushed for the boy on the bed.

It wasn’t until, Stiles scrambled back in a panic at their sudden advance did they realize their mistake. His arm was flung out to hold them back, his eyes wide with fear. His scent had gone acrid with distress.

Only Derek, who had been frozen in shock, had not made any move towards the traumatized young man.

“Please don’t!” Stiles was begging, to their horror. “Please don’t.”

Bastien slowly pulled the horror-stricken girls away from the bed. “Okay Stiles. It’s okay.” He said soothingly. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”

Stiles was twitching and breathing hard, his eyes wild. “Okay.” He repeated hoarsely. “Okay. Okay, it’s okay.”

Derek’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the torn flesh of Stiles’ palms. His throat worked furiously as he struggled not to growl at the sight. It looked like Stiles had been pulling at something. A rope? The chafe marks around Stiles’ boney wrists seemed to confirm some kind of restraint.

Struggling to keep his voice steady, Derek said, “Stiles, will you let us look at your hands? Please? You’re bleeding.”

Blinking in incomprehension, Stiles stared at Derek.

“Derek.”

A little chill went down Derek’s spine at the sound of Stiles’ voice. He couldn’t explain it.

“Stiles?” Bastien pressed gently, also nonplussed.

Stiles eyes flickered over to his friend before returning to Derek. There was a little wrinkle in forehead. “Derek?” Then he looked down at his hands and his frown deepened.

That explained the chill from before. Derek swallowed around the thickness in his throat. He remembered that lost look. “It’s okay Stiles. You can count them if you need to.”

Familiar amber eyes wavered towards him and back to his fingers. Derek saw his fingers twitch as Stiles counted silently. The sight broke his heart.

“T-ten,” Stiles uttered softly, disbelieving. “But.” He looked at Derek, his brow furrowed. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Derek choked in agreement. His eyes burned. Never had he regretted his actions more than this moment. When Stiles was clearly so disbelieving of his presence that he questioned his reality to the point where he was clearly thinking he was possessed once more.

“I was a f-fox.” Stiles stuttered. His eyes confused. “Wasn’t I?”

Derek nodded. “You were.”

“I was supposed to be a werewolf.” Stiles said numbly. “But, then I was a fox.”

“Why were you supposed to be a werewolf?” Bastien seized on with concern. “Did Callum _bite_ you, Stiles?”

Stiles flinched hard at the name.

Derek succeeded at holding back the protective growl, but not the flash of his crimson eyes. “Stiles.” He bit out. His voice carried a wealth of emotion in just his name. Urgency, concern, protective rage.

“Not bitten, no I.” Stiles swallowed. His fingers reached upwards to encircle the small pouch hanging from his neck. “I asked her if she could make me like her. To get away.”

“Her? The baby?” Ransom asked breathlessly.

“B—but I messed it up,” Stiles said shakily. “I turned into a _fox_.” There was so much shame and self-hatred in his voice that the occupants in the room, cringed.

Lydia and Derek’s eyes met.

“Stiles, I know you’re scared,” Lydia said firmly, “but there was nothing wrong with your fox form. I didn’t sense any darkness from you. But that’s not the most important thing right now, okay? We need to look at your injuries.”

Stile’s heartbeat skipped. He looked at them as his pulse picked up speed. “I’m okay. I can bandage these myself.”

Bastien wasn’t having it. “Stiles you have a lump on your head the size of a goose-egg, your hands might need stitches, and I need to check on the baby and make sure everything is okay. You’ve been in shock for an extended period of time, it’s not good for either of you.”

Derek’s gaze snapped back to Stiles at the sound of his breath hitching.

“The baby? Is she okay?” He splayed his torn palms over his swollen belly in concern. “Can you hear her? Bastien! Is she okay?”

Derek held himself back from pulling his frantic mate into his arms by a _very_ small thread of control. His whole body was coiled with barely restrained tension. He wanted to comfort Stiles and their unborn daughter so badly he could barely hear past the roar in his ears. It was the knowledge that Stiles was hurt, that he needed care that Derek couldn’t provide that held him back from that sharp edge.

“Shh---Stiles I can hear the baby’s heart beat fine, but I need to examine you to make sure.”

Slowly, with movements that would hopefully not alarm Stiles any further, Bastien gestured Ransom to hand him his canvas midwife bag. He pulled out the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. “Stiles? Can I take your blood pressure?” Bastien asked seriously.

Derek didn’t like the rapid thready beat of Stiles’ pulse so he was relieved when Stiles reluctantly nodded.

Bastien kept his touch brief and clinical, despite the fact that they were friends and pack mates. It was clear to everyone present that Stiles was deeply traumatized by his ordeal. Some of the physical injuries were obvious, but without knowing firsthand what happened at the cabin over the past few days, no one could accurately guess how badly Stiles had suffered.

“142/95,” Bas muttered. “It’s a little high. I’m going to have to keep you in bed for a few days to see if we can’t get it back down to a manageable level.” He gave Stiles a small smile. “Perfect excuse for you to eat in bed, lucky guy.”

Stiles chapped lips twitched like he had tried to find it in himself to smile back.

“I’m going to get mom to bring up the ultrasound machine and we can have a good look at your little bean before we take some blood samples, Stiles, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles said hoarsely.

Bastien shared a look with Ransom.

“I’ll go tell your mom,” she murmured. Bastien nodded in thanks.

“While she’s doing that, let’s get your hands cleaned up.”

Stiles licked his lips nervously, “Derek.”

“What’s that?” Bastien looked up from searching for a needle.

Stiles looked startled, like he hadn’t meant to say it outloud. “Um--”

Derek got a whiff of panic as Bastien leaned closer to Stiles with the suture needle and antibacterial wipes. He rumbled a warning before he could think.

Bastien paused, glancing between the two of them in surprise.

“I don’t. I think I--” Stiles sounded pained. He was instinctively skootching closer to Derek.

The Alpha couldn’t deny his instincts, as well as Stiles’ at the same time. Derek enveloped the boy into his arms like he’d been wanting to do for months. He was relieved beyond words when Stiles made no protest.

In fact, Stiles turned his head into Derek’s chest with a barely heard inhale as Bastien began to clean up the nasty-looking welts on the first outstretched palm. Derek closed his eyes tightly as he relished the fact that his mate was finally in his arms and safe.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Lydia asked as a few minutes passed by in silence.

“Recite baseball statistics?” came Stiles’ muffled voice.

“Uh huh,” Lydia drawled. “If you’re looking for boredom I can explain Stokes’ theorem . . .”

Hissing in pain at a particularly deep stab of the needle, Stiles knocked his forehead against Derek’s sternum almost without thinking.

“I hate needles,” he groaned.

“Sorry, almost done,” Bastien apologized without looking up.

He was pressing clean gauze to the neat stitches when Sophie and Ransom joined them. Sophie had the portable ultra sound while Ransom carried a cup of hot tea.

“Oh, Stiles,” Sophie said relieved. “I’m so glad to see you’re back. I made you some tea. It’s a combination of black haw and crampbark to help settle your insides. It also might make you a little sleepy.”

Stiles lifted his head. “Thanks Sophie,” he said softly.

Ransom placed the tea on the night table to give it a chance to cool.

“What are the herbs supposed to do?” Lydia asked curiously.

Derek was glad she asked. He would likely sound too suspicious if he asked.

As Sophie set up the machine, she answered, “They are anti-spasmodic herbs and are used together traditionally as a uterine tonic.” She glanced up. “I know Stiles is not a woman, but the mechanics of an anti-spasmodic still apply in a situation where he has suffered a shock and is carrying a high-risk fetus.” She gave Stiles a motherly smile. “It doesn’t taste too horrible either.”

Derek tensed at the term high-risk.

High-risk for what?

“Other hand, please Stiles.” Bastien requested with a sympathetic grimace.

At least this hand didn’t seem to need as many stitches. It was mostly clean up.

It only took a minute for Sophie to be standing ready with the transducer.

Gathering his sheets around his nakedness but leaving his belly exposed, Stiles reclined back in the pillows, one hand anxiously clutching Derek’s, his knuckles white.

Lydia seemed to be the first to realize how they’d just left Stiles naked after his transformation without making the connection that he’d likely feel less vulnerable with something to _wear_. With an exasperated eye roll (at herself included), she turned around to search through a dresser for something comfortable for him to put on.

“There we go,” Sophie’s warm voice said, as she pressed the wand to Stiles’ belly firmly. She turned the small screen to her tense audience. “See there?” She pointed to a light grey area on the black and white monitor that formed into something remarkably baby-shaped. “Looks like the baby is nice and relaxed.”

Stiles dropped his head back on his pillows with a shuddery breath of relief. He swiped away the tears gathered at the corners of his eyes with the back of his bandaged hand. “Thank god,” he exhaled shakily.

Derek’s mouth was agape. The image of the baby on screen filled him with an incredible sense of frailty and good fortune. He had come so close to losing both of them thanks in no small part to his stupidity and self-sabotage. He would no longer take any risks with their future.

He dragged his eyes away from the screen to look at Stiles wan face. “God, _Stiles,_ ” he choked.

With both hands bandaged and the gel cleaned from his belly, Stiles gratefully accepted the oversized t-shirt and briefs Lydia found for him to put on.

“I should clean up first,” he said reluctantly, noting the dirt and leaves he had so far tracked into the bed.

“I made you a bath but it likely needs to be warmed up,” Lydia said.

The clothing dropped from Stiles’ numb hands. “No,” he blurted.

Derek looked at his mate in confusion, hearing the sudden spike of his pulse.

Lydia was taken aback, “I didn’t put any bubbles in it or anyth--”

“No bath--!” Stiles wheezed. He pressed a hand against his chest as though feeling a constriction.

Not understanding the reason for the panic attack, Derek was more concerned with reassuring Stiles that he was safe. “Lydia drain the bath,” he ordered. Then careful to make sure Stiles was aware of his approach and had to opportunity to turn him away if he wanted, Derek pulled him back into his arms. “It’s okay Stiles. Breathe for me. Deep breath in. That’s it. And out. Your safe, okay? You’re safe.”

Stiles arm locked around Derek’s as he fought for control of his breathing. In his panicked shifting, the sheets had dropped down a little to tangle around his legs and Derek caught sight of purple and green bruises on his hips. Finger shaped bruises.

Bastien’s eyes locked with Derek’s in horror. Gold and crimson flashed in mutual understanding and remembrance of what they had scented at the cabin.

Was Stiles raped? Derek reeled, feeling bile climb the back of his throat. Had he killed that werewolf too swiftly? Could he bring him back to kill him again, in smaller pieces? Jeezus. His mate . . .

“Its okay, Stiles,” Derek choked, “You’re safe now.”

Eventually Stiles breathing evened out but all the stress had overtaxed his body. He sagged bonelessly in Derek’s arms as he fell into a deep exhausted sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So. Not completely happy with this chapter but it went the way it was supposed to so I shouldn't complain.   
> Derek and Stiles will not have a smooth transition despite how this Chapter may have made it seem. If you haven't picked it up, Stiles is in more than a little bit of shock and there is quite a large element of disbelief that Derek is even there. Stiles has a list of trauma to deal with not to mention all the stuff from before, so it won't be a Disney-esque reunion.   
> Also, we're not even close to the end of the story so. There is that. :)


	25. Something Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep breath: Ok so my dads in the hospital in another province so I've had to travel back and forth. I've got a pinched nerve in my neck that is excruciatingly painful and left me hopping horizontally from one heat pad to another for over a month, And single-momming. *GAAAAASP* That's why I haven't updated in so long. Plus the scenes between Derek and Stiles were hard to write. I didn't want it too snuggly but I did want some touchy-feely so I was struggling with the balance. But I didn't forget you guys that's the important thing. 
> 
> Song to read by: Who Am I To Stand In Your Way - Chester See

Lydia pushed her fingers against the stubborn band of pain tightening across her brow. Her tension headache was relentless. She switched her cell phone to the other hand and leaned against the kitchen wall with a tired sigh.

The call was picked up. She straightened in response.

“Hello?” a curt voice responded.

“It’s me,” Lydia said.

“Lydia. Is everything okay?” Chris Argent’s voice warmed a few degrees.

She fingered her lips with a finger. Nervous habit. “It’s certainly looking up,” she answered.

“You found Stiles,” he guessed.

“Yeah.”

Chris noted the way she exhaled her answer. He paused, waiting for her to elaborate.

“He and the baby are going to be okay. Physically.” She added. “We don’t know yet what happened during his captivity but there are signs he might have been sexually assaulted.” Lydia blinked rapidly to dispel rising wetness in her eyes. The image of Stiles’ panic attack earlier left her shaken.

The news was certainly mixed. Chris was relieved Derek had found the boy. He chose to focus on that. “What about his kidnappers?” He asked her.

Lydia grimaced. “There were two holding Stiles. Derek killed the Beta and we have the Emissary that was involved. The Pontrain Pack Alpha was also killed by an allied local pack.”

Chris sounded shocked, “Emissary?”

She made a noncommittal sound. “Mmm. More like heading into Darach territory, the path she was heading. Her powers are now bound. But. Until we know more can you make sure Deaton doesn’t get wind of Stiles’ situation? I don’t know how much support she had from the Emissary community.”

“What about his father? Should I update him?”

Lydia bit her lip guiltily. She wanted to tell the Sheriff. They had worked closely in the search for Stiles and she knew he loved his son, despite how he had failed to properly show it before Stiles left. It was a tough decision.

“No,” she reached her decision. “Keep this information within the Hale pack for now. I don’t want to risk upsetting Stiles with more faces he’s unprepared to see on top of what he’s just gone through. If we tell them, you know _someone_ will show up in New Orleans.” Never mind that was exactly what she, Derek, and Danny had done. At least she could argue their timing had been useful in the rescue. She just hoped Stiles would hear them out.

“We won’t be able to keep it from them for long,” Chris said. “John is waiting for an update. He’s not very patient.”

“I know,” Lydia said, “Just even until Stiles is more lucid and can make the call himself.”

“You’re the boss,” Chris said, a smile in his voice (well, what passed for a smile on the elder Argent).

Even though it was said playfully, it did good things for Lydia’s insides. “Well, the big boss man is a little preoccupied at the moment,” she sniffed.

“I bet he is,” Chris said, a little more serious. “You tell him Isaac and I are handling everything here and Cora is flying in this weekend. We need her insight on paint colors.”

Lydia made a sharp noise in affront, “I don’t think so! Tell Cora to call me when she gets in!” Oh no, there would be no Hale input on the Pack house color scheme! Not if she had any say so. She refused to live in a poor excuse for a 70’s greaser hang-out. She had nightmares of leather couches, pool tables and black and white vinyl floors. Lydia repressed a horrified shudder.

Well, at least she was distracted from the present for a few moments as she quickly sent off a couple of her décor ideas to Cora in hopes of distracting (or even better— _overwhelming_ ) the youngest Hale.

 

Stiles’ waking moments did not fill him with confidence. As sleep released its hold he found himself growing more and more apprehensive as awareness crept in. He was too afraid to open his eyes and discover what fresh hell greeted him _this_ morning.

There were crumpled sheets under his cheek and he was afraid it meant—

_Am I back in the cabin? Did I just dream turning into a fox—all that running through the swamp—was it just wishful thinking? Did I see Derek or was I hallucinating? (tho why the hell would Jackson be in my dreams, unless I **am** losing my mind--?!)_

Curled up on his side in the protective hunch he tended to sleep in lately, Stiles extended his senses. There was a large body next to him, breathing slowly and evenly. The scent of piñon pine drifted between the sheets and coaxed Stiles to relax by this scent memory alone. _Only . . ._

 _Not possible_ , he rejected, wanting nothing but to curl into a tighter ball. So many times he’d woken up from the same dream and been crushed to find himself alone in bed, or even worse—in the cabin.

A large hand was cupped over his raised hip and Stiles was torn by the deceitful sense of safety that could only be induced by his double-edged dreams. He was weary of reality, of what would meet his eyes should he open them.

Stiles wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure if he found Callum lying next to him all sated and smug. Not after how _real_ everything had felt last night. How _safe_ he felt wrapped in Derek’s arms.

Stiles pulse hiccupped and started to race in dread. He didn’t get happy endings. What if it had all been a hallucination because he couldn’t handle—

_Tootightgodpleaseidontwanttoit **hurts** somuch_

Or a mind trick because he’d turned himself into a fox?! Like the _Nogitsune_ —! Stiles breath wheezed out in the early stages of a panic attack. _Oh god. I knew it wasn’t gone!_

The fingers curled over his hipbone twitched and whoever it was inhaled a breath, reacting to the Stiles’ impressive spike in anxiety. “Stiles--?” A disoriented voice rumbled in concern.

Stiles breath hitched in shock at the familiar pitch of the voice. Was he _still_ dreaming? “Derek?” To his horror, his voice cracked with emotion.

Blinking open his swimming eyes; there he was. It was him. It was Sourwolf.

Albeit this version seemed a bit scruffier than the one he last etched in his memory. There was no mistaking the man that owned Stiles heart from the moment he caught him and Scott trespassing in the preserve, years ago.

Stiles couldn’t help blinking through tears streaming down his face as he drank his fill of those familiar furrowed brows. He clutched his fists tightly to his own chest in a poor attempt to restrain himself from reaching out to the sleepy eyed Hale.

Derek didn’t miss the aborted gesture. His wild brows furrowed deeper. “Stiles,” he said in his disproportionately mellow voice, “Stiles it’s okay. You’re safe.” He propped himself up on one elbow, the sheets pooling around his bare waist. Derek hadn’t realized until that moment that falling asleep half naked with the traumatized boy might not be appropriate. They had just been _so exhausted_ last night he hadn’t thought—

His stomach plummeted with dismay. _Fuck._ He hadn’t even had Stiles back a full day and already he was messing it up.

“I’m sorry Stiles,” Derek said carefully, “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I can go get someone else if you’d—”

The dismayed sound that came from Stiles as Derek retreated was involuntary and compelling.  It provoked a swift response from Derek’s wolf and he found himself ducking back under the sheets, hushing his traumatized mate. Silently cursing his inability to surrender to what felt _right_. He carefully gathered Stiles into his arms all the while waiting for any inkling of protest but there were none forthcoming.

Instead, Stiles clutched Derek’s forearms while muttering, “I don’t care if you’re not real! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave!”

“Shh,” Derek hushed him, pressing whiskered lips to Stiles messy crown. “I promise I’m real, Stiles. I’m not leaving you. Not again.”

Derek closed his eyes tightly as Stiles clung to him and shivered; murmuring things that probably weren’t meant to be overheard but Stiles was too forgone with the conclusion that everything was a convincing illusion. All Derek could do was hold onto the younger man and hope that if he repeated his reassurances long enough, Stiles would start to believe him.

It wasn’t long before the nerve-shattering strain of the past few days caught up to Stiles once more and he fitfully mumbled himself to sleep against Derek’s chest. It didn’t even bother the Alpha that the place where Stiles’ exhausted cheek came to rest was sticky with tears and mucus. He couldn’t look away from the shattered boy. The sight filled him with heartbreak and a sense of overwhelming loss. He had never seen Stiles this undone, not even in the aftermath of the Void fox, though he could definitely see the lingering effects of the dark spirit now even after all this time.

What had they done?

Derek ever so carefully tightened his grip on his mate. He would do everything in his power to see Stiles recover from this. At whatever cost to himself. However long it took. The boy, no—young man—he could barely be called a boy any longer when he almost over shot the Alpha in height if not shoulder breadth. He would see Stiles laugh again, he swore to himself. One of Stiles’ trademark carefree, open mouth laughs. The ones that used to _irritate_ the werewolf with their abrupt and mad cackling intensity. The kind of loud, enthusiastic guffaws that made the teen practically fold in half with their delivery.

Derek fell asleep with a nostalgic curl to his lips, nuzzling Stiles’ tangled hair.

As plans went, it was one of his better ones.

 

The next time anyone stirred in the Attic room it was nearing lunch. Derek was awake as soon as someone placed a foot on the bottom of the stairs leading to Stiles’ living space. He lifted his head sharply, his eyes flashing red before he remembered where he was and who he was with. He remained tense until the footsteps yielded more information about exactly who approached. 

There were two approaching actually. One who was clearly at ease with the stairway and was ascending the floors with rapid familiarity, _Ransom_ , Derek guessed. The one following was a little slower but not by much, as though unwilling to lose ground to their companion. There was the faint sound of a lone finger trailing along the aged wallpaper out of habit. Competitive and curious, trademarks that clearly announced Lydia.

Relaxing a bit more at realization that pack was accompanying the witch, Derek very gently extracted himself from the tangle of limbs he found himself in. He didn’t go far, only enough to sit up amongst the blankets. It was more out of a need to appear less unguarded, his Alpha instincts insisting that he protect his vulnerable mate.

Ransom gave a knock on the door frame before entering the space, more cautious than she would normally conduct herself. She didn’t want to startle Stiles.

She saw the Alpha sitting up waiting for them and spared him only a brief glance to make sure he wasn’t gonna rip her to shreds or something before peering across the room at what she could see of her friend.

“Stiles--?” She asked quietly.

“Still sleeping,” Derek informed them, glancing down at the face that was turned towards him. A tiny frown creased Stiles’ forehead.

“He needs to eat something,” Lydia contributed, stepping forward with a bundle of clothing in her arms. Derek recognized the clothes he had worn yesterday, freshly laundered. “His blood sugar will drop if he sleeps much longer.”

Ransom set down the tray she was carrying. On it was a pair of plates with breakfast. A simple one meant to be easy on Stiles’ stomach, and one for an Alpha werewolf. At the sight of half a pound of bacon, Derek’s belly gave an impressive rumble.

“Thank you,” Derek extended to both young women for their thoughtfulness. He pulled his tray onto his lap. The opposite one where Stiles wouldn’t accidentally get a face full of hash browns if he suddenly flipped over in his sleep.

“He woke earlier,” Derek admitted around a piece of bacon, “but he didn’t react very well.” He swallowed his mouthful with some difficulty.

Ransom nodded, her blue eyes gleaming with understanding, “Bastien heard, he let us know you both needed a little more time.”

Derek wasn’t sure he liked knowing that he and Stiles were being listened in on, but honestly it wasn’t really his call. He was lucky enough to be here with his mate as it was.

“I sent Danny out for clothes that didn’t have claw marks in them,” Lydia said perfunctorily, as she set the bundle of clean clothes at Derek’s feet. “You’ll need them for later.”

“Later?” He arched a brow at her.

Ransom joined in, “I could really use the help transferring the emissary bitch over to the Vampire coven. My home is not really outfitted for containment.”

Derek examined the witch for a moment. He really didn’t want to leave Stiles, but he would make sure he wasn’t alone. He felt the need to see justice served. Derek nodded. “And you’re certain the Coven will eliminate any possible remaining power she could have?”

Ransom’s smile was not a nice one. “I’m positive.”

Lydia sounded unaffected, “Infecting someone with the Zombie curse leaves them completely at the mercy of the sorcerer, or in this case, the Vampire Rom Baro who will in effect, gain a mindless slave.”

“A vast improvement,” Ransom muttered under her breath with vicious satisfaction.

“Wait,” Derek said, something Lydia said tickling at his memory. It brought to mind something he read in his family’s vast library, “You said Rom Baro. That’s a gypsy leader isn’t it?”

Lydia’s lips twitched in an almost smile, “Well, where did the most infamous vampire hail from?”

Derek huffed, “Transylvania, but--”

“And what is the second largest minority in Romania?” She continued smugly.

He rolled his eyes. “Werewolves?” He sassed her.

Lydia pursed her lips at him for ruining her fun, “Romani, Derek.”

Ransom looked vaguely pleased that they knew as much.

“Ffkk,” there came a muffled curse from the bed, “thought Beacon Hills was bad n’uff.”

Everyone froze at the sound of Stiles’ hoarse voice. As the teen in question struggled to push his awkward form upright, he caught sight of his company and meeped in realization. His eyes snagged on Derek awkwardly before coming to rest on the girls, “Uh, hey—” he stammered, pulse spiking.

Derek hoped whatever clarity Stiles woke with wouldn’t disappear with another panic attack.

Lydia wasn’t taking any chances. She took the opportunity to hand Stiles his breakfast. “Eat up,” She coached firmly. “You need to build your strength.”

Reaching for the toast hesitantly with a bandaged hand, Stiles blinked at her. “Lyds.”

“Yes.” She kept her response characteristically short, almost impatient. Derek lauded her method of keeping things normal.

The confused boy flickered his gaze to Ransom, “You guys are—in the same room.”

Ransom’s red lips tightened only a little in concern for his bewilderment. “Yeah, you would not believe how full the house is right now. Gansey actually slept on the floor last night.”

Of all things, that seemed to draw a scoff out of Stiles. “Uh, no. He sleeps on the green couch.”

That put a grin on Ransom’s face. “Yeah but we’ve got more people than beds, so. I think it’s . . . Peter? That slept on the green couch?”

From downstairs there came a muffled comment from Peter about how _pleased_ he was to be sleeping on a glorified dog’s bed. Derek bit his bottom lip to keep from smirking.

Stiles was warily chewing a bite of toast. It seemed more mechanical than it would have been if he was actually enjoying his food. Derek didn’t let it worry him too much. There were more pressing concerns.

“Peter,” said Stiles without inflection. He set down the piece of toast he was holding. His honey eyes went blank.

Ransom and Lydia shared a concerned look.

Derek waited anxiously.

“I wouldn’t—dream about Peter being here,” Stiles mumbled, his breath hitching slightly. Derek could smell the salt of tears before he even looked up, his eyes widening with entreaty, “You mean it was all—real?” His voice wobbled with dismay.

Before Stiles could fall down further into that horrifying rabbit hole that was just too fresh for his traumatized mind, Lydia tapped his plate with a perfectly manicured finger. “Yes. As real as the toast that is getting cold and gross the longer you keep yapping Stilinski. Eat up, the baby needs you.”

At the reminder of his protruding belly, Stiles wrapped his arms around his waist protectively. “Everything is okay right? She’s okay?” At the sound of his mates concern for their unborn child Derek wanted to drag Stiles back into the circle of his arms to reassure him, but he resisted. Barely.

“She’s fine,” Ransom said gently. “We peeked at her last night remember? 17 weeks and she’s doing better than her daddy right now, which is why you need to eat your breakfast.”

Stiles picked the toast back up with all the enthusiasm of someone eating wet cardboard. Derek let a content rumble slip as Stiles continued eating. It earned him a startled glance.

 _17 weeks_ , Ransom’s words sank in, _that was four months!_  

Derek covertly glanced at Stiles. Four months was a long time to feel cut adrift from the pack. And simultaneously four months was also a bit daunting when it meant there were only _five_ months left of pregnancy. He felt the overwhelming urge to make up for lost time. His fingers dug into the mattress as he fought with his overbearing instincts.

Stiles’ scent was growing acrid with shame. His eyes flickered between Derek and Lydia. They settled on Lydia. “Why—why are you here?” He asked around a sore sounding throat. Ransom quickly handed Stiles the water glass that was on the night table.

Lydia pursed her lips, “Really Stiles?” Her tone brooked no-nonsense. “How can you ask me that? You left me behind without even an explanation. I thought we were friends!”

Stiles traced a bead of water on the outside of the glass, “You were about the only one,” he said quietly, looking up at her through his lashes. “I couldn’t tell you anything because I knew you would find me if I gave you a trail. I can’t go back.”

“I understand a little about why you might feel like that,” Lydia said, kneeling next to the futon mattress. She bit her lip, “but you don’t have to be alone.”

Stiles licked his lips nervously, bobbing his head to let her know he heard her. “What about—what about you?” He asked Derek hesitantly.

“What?” Derek was surprised.

Lydia gave him a _look_ over Stiles’ head.

Oh.

Derek felt his ears flush red. “I’ve made so many mistakes, Stiles,” he said awkwardly. “You should know this about me by now. But. I couldn’t let you be one of them.”

Blinking at Derek’s words, Stiles was startled enough not to look away from his gaze. Nobody missed how Stiles reached for his opposite arm and gave himself a harsh pinch. “Ow,” he hissed, rubbing his rapidly forming mark.

“What did you do that for?” Derek demanded, in an aborted reach to soothe his pain.

“Are you sure I’m not dreaming?” Stiles demanded of Ransom.

“Gansey had projectile diarrhea this morning,” was Ransom’s blithe answer, “pretty sure that is not the stuff of my dreams.” She turned to Lydia, “Also if you could let your group know not to feed the sad eyed monster dog people food that would be great, otherwise I’m going to have to insist on reassigning pooper scooper duties.”

Derek sneakily replaced the piece of bacon he was saving back on the plate.

Lydia was pinching her eyebrows with her fingers. “What I wouldn’t do for a tall, non-fat latte with caramel drizzle right now.” She sighed. Dropping her hand, Lydia gathered herself. She looked at Stiles solemnly. “What does Derek do best, Stiles?”

Blinking rapidly, Stiles said, “Uh.”

Derek wasn’t sure he was comfortable with the direction this conversation was heading, but he trusted his second.

“He rips people’s throats out? With his teeth?” Stiles offered reluctantly.

“Stop deflecting,” Lydia snapped.

Stiles shoulders dropped. His tongue flicked out again to wet his chapped lips. “He tries to save everyone.” His brows dipped into a frown, “Usually with reckless disregard for his own safety,” he added under his breath.

Lydia leaned forward, “Why does he do that though?”

Stiles couldn’t help but think of Boyd and Erica, and Isaac. “He’s a good person under all that stubble,” he avoided Derek’s stunned gaze. “Plus, y’know. Major guilt complex.”

“Okay,” Lydia nodded, “So knowing him the way you do can you look back at what happened between the two of you and see what he did a little differently?”

Stiles’ throat clicked as he swallowed heavily. He didn’t want to think about it with Derek so close by. It was so hard to remember how Derek had treated him so coolly, basically rushing him out the door after their passionate night together. He remembered only broken pieces of the rest of that day, his devastation had been so consuming.

It was like he could sense Stiles’ reluctance and knew he had to take the first step. “I panicked, Stiles.” Derek admitted bleakly. He stared down at his empty hands. “I thought I was too late when I saw you in the Dread Doctor’s lab. You looked-- Then we---I ruin everything I touch! I thought you’d be better off if we remained friends. I didn’t know about Scott and the others till after.”

Stiles stared wide-eyed as the normally taciturn Alpha tried awkwardly to explain. “You said it was because I was pack.” He said numbly.

Derek looked shamed, “You _are_ pack. But that’s not why it happened.”

“Why then?” Stiles choked.

“Because I couldn’t imagine being in a world without you. Without my anchor. My mate.” Derek said hoarsely.

Stiles sat still as Derek’s words sank in. Then he reached up slowly to touch the scar on his shoulder. “I’m your mate?”

Derek nodded. He wanted to say more. Promise more, but he knew it was too soon.

“This is better than watching soaps,” Ransom piped up, bouncing on her toes. Lydia shot her a narrow-eyed look.

Exhaling as Ransom broke the tension growing in the room, Stiles found himself swaying where he sat. “I think—I better lie down again.” He said weakly.

Derek reached forward instantly, waiting only for Stiles’ nod before he initiated touch. He helped Stiles recline back on the bed, using all the available pillows to make him comfortable. The smallest twitch of his lips indicated Stiles’ amusement at the obvious henpecking.

His face smoothed out into a blank mask as their eyes locked. Derek heard Stiles’ heart stumble before smoothing out into its regular beat. “I didn’t want to be here,” he breathed reluctantly, his confession was nearly inaudible. “I was so tired, Derek.”

It took everything Derek had not to hide his fear, his shame, at Stiles’ words from those present. “Then I’m even more grateful to your new pack mates for giving you the strength you needed,” he admitted, his voice raspy with emotion.

 _I’m sorry, I’m so **fucking** sorry, _ he wanted to add. Instead Derek hoped he could convey his feelings through his actions.

As it was this kind of disclosure didn’t come naturally to the Alpha but he had promised to do everything he could to show Stiles how much he meant to him.

Stiles eyes were closed as he drifted to sleep, but his lips curled into a contented smile. Ransom seemed pleasantly surprised as well. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Derek nodded, his ears turning the palest shade of coral in his discomfort.

Lydia mumbled something under her breath that only Derek could hear and he shot her a warning glare.

“ _Marshmallow_ ,” she sniffed.

So much for surprising her later with a tall, non-fat latte with caramel drizzle. She could stick with the generic k-cups downstairs, Derek decided emphatically.

 

Her senses were in complete disarray when the witch dragged her out of the warded basement. Shandra lifted her head, unable to help but take in deep gulps of the fresh night air as it gusted around the small party selected to guard her until the Vampire came to collect her.

Strangely she had no fear at that thought. It was like most of her emotions had been muted, or scattered not unlike her powers, the moment the witch bound her. The same moment she watched Callum get torn in two by the dark haired Alpha. The Hale Alpha who was Stiles’ mate.

It wasn’t even that she was devastated by the loss of her cousin, maybe a small nostalgic part of her, no— it was more that the very violent end he met meant that her very carefully laid plans were also torn to ribbons.

She had spent the better part of a decade carefully weaving her power through the Pontrain Pack. Mostly at Tracy’s direction but even more so to her own. She was not satisfied remaining as a shadowy background figure to the Alpha while he took credit for all her hard work. As an Emissary she was mostly ignored unless her council was explicitly required.

It burned her to know that she had spent her whole life studying and taking esoteric tests to get where she was while Alpha Tracy had inherited his position of power from his Alpha father.

Yet while she resented these things she also recognized she and Alpha Tracy were likeminded in . . . work ethic. While his goals worked with her own she saw no reason to upset the chain of command. However she had no problem _directing_ his attention where she wanted. For example, the recently arrived Spark and his impossible seeming pregnancy. Once the facts were confirmed, the details were just too promising to pass up. If they could get their hands on a male Spark that could reproduce with a werewolf . . . well. There were so many specialized markets they could choose from just from that one instance. Their wealth and power had the potential to be unlimited if they could manage to contain him and the child.

And while Alpha Tracy had no personal interest in breeding a child with the Spark, his second in command had no qualms.

It had almost worked in their favor, Shandra thought distantly. If it had remained only the Renards and the witch the upset could have been contained. But the Spark’s former pack appeared the day of the kidnapping and it seemed that was enough to topple the delicately balanced pyramid of cards.

While the scheme crashed and burned around their ears and Shandra was literally awaiting her fate she knew the last of her plans, the one longest term of them all, would come to fruition. She regretted that she would not be aware to see it happen but the knowledge that it was already unfolding was enough to settle her into a sort of grim complacency.

 

As they waited in the otherwise abandoned park a block away from the house, Danny took to glancing at the blank-faced former emissary with thinly veiled suspicion. “Is anyone else bothered by how quiet she is?” he asked under his breath. He hunched into his navy blue hoodie as if to hide from late October chill.

Jackson grunted but otherwise made no other confirmation. Derek however was unfortunately holding one of Shandra’s arms, Ransom had the other. The Alpha werewolf looked like he was seconds away from curling his lips into a snarl.

Bastien was on the fringes acting as lookout. Not so much for the vampires since they wouldn’t exactly see them coming, but for any other unwelcome guests. Even if they weren’t expecting any further backlash from the Pontrain pack thanks to Juliette DeMolay, they were all hyper alert due to recent events.

Derek saw the gold shimmer of Ransom’s tattoos and bit back a growl at what that meant.

“Thank you for being prompt,” she said suddenly to what seemed like empty air.

“Olive.” A voice greeted.

The timbre of that voice made the hairs stand up on Derek’s neck. The way it grated along the soundwaves made his wolf bristle and snarl in defense. It wasn’t a natural noise. He instantly, viscerally, wanted his pack far away from this _wrongness_ in a human-shaped package.

Visually the man that appeared from the shadows looked human with his long wavy brown hair and pale grey eyes. His outfit was tragically Lestat-ish with tight black pants and boots and a long sleeved shirt.

His cold predator gaze was singularly focused on Ransom, a fact that Derek found himself studying carefully.

“You have brought my coven another gift,” his dispassionate gaze flickered to Shandra. “We are indebted to you for the addition.”

“Actually, Lee, you are doing us the favor.” Ransom corrected him, perhaps knowing it was dangerous to be beholden to vampires, “by accepting this oath breaker as one of yours, you are satisfying the Loa’s demand for justice.”

“Justice,” Lee said slowly, as though testing the word. Derek ground his teeth as the sound was not unlike claws dragged across a chalkboard to his sensitive ears. Those icy eyes now focused on him. “She hurt the breeding boy. Your mate.”

Derek’s answer was a low growl of protective fury.

Lee blinked languidly, unaffected. He moved closer to them without seemingly moving. “Any last words oathbreaker?” he spoke directly to Shandra.

The subdued emissary looked up. There was fear in her gaze but it was secondary to the disturbing expression of satisfaction. “I left a message in my place of captivity. I am ready.”

Without waiting for permission, Lee completed a spine-unhinging zip forward that was barely visible to the naked eye; even to Derek’s Alpha enhanced sight. There was the echo of a scream and in the same second both the emissary and the vampire were gone.

The group was left in their wake blinking in shock.

“—did she say she left something in my basement?” Ransom said disbelievingly, impatiently shaking off the prey like instinct to freeze in the presence of something predatory and dangerous.

Bastien made a concerned sound.

“Stiles--!” Derek gasped out in horrified realization. Stiles was in that house! What if what she left behind was meant to hurt him?! He spun around half-shifted and began tearing back to the house.

He was the first one in the group to reach the two story home and he was torn between seeing first-hand what the danger entailed and ensuring Stiles’ safety. The second won out and he raced up the back staircase, ignoring Peter’s demand for an explanation and the loud, barking bull mastiff.

Derek burst into the attic to find Lydia perched on a chair next to Stiles’ futon. It looked like the boy was sleeping again (or still, he wasn’t sure). He sagged against the doorjamb in relief.

“What. The. Hell?!” Lydia hissed furiously, chucking the textbook she was studying at his head.

“Sorry!” Derek apologized, hand held out as if to hold her off, “Sorry! I thought he might be in danger!”

Lydia checked to make sure Stiles hadn’t been disturbed by all the commotion before glaring back at her Alpha, “Explain,” she said shortly.

“The emissary said she left something behind in the basement before being taken by the vampire, I was worried it might be for Stiles.” Derek summed up.

“Stiles is fine,” Lydia reassured him, “but now you need to go check what the hell that bitch did.”

He nodded shortly and ducked back down the stairs. The rest of the party was just coming in the door as he was descending into the basement where Ransom’s workshop was and where they had contained Shandra. Derek’s eyes flashed crimson in order to combat the gloom that the overhead bulb couldn’t reach.

He didn’t sense any fresh magic, or darkness from the space where the emissary had been bound. Derek stood still and let his senses open wide, searching for clues.

Footsteps pounded on the rickety stairway behind him and he braced himself for company.

“Anything?” Bastien asked hurriedly.

Derek shook his head, eyes narrow as he leaned forward into the small space.

_Wait._

There was something written into the dirt against the wall, almost unseen. He ignored Ransom’s voice as he tried to read it.

“There’s no sign of magic,” Ransom said, “I would have known.”

“She wrote something here,” Derek interrupted them tightly.

“What’s it say?”

Derek rocked back on his haunches, “You bound my power, now the Rougarou are free. I may not control them but in death my pack will avenge me,” he read heavily. _Fucking emissaries_.

Ransom’s eyes were wide as he turned to face her.

“Please tell me the stories my uncle used to tell me about cursed werewolves as a child were just that. Stories.” Derek said through clenched teeth.

“Um,” she said hesitantly, biting her red lips. “No?” She grimaced apologetically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eh heh.


	26. Absolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains one long waited for explanation. :)
> 
> Song to read by: Who am I to stand In Your Way - Chester See

“Do we have any more word on the headcount?” Derek asked, the faint rasp of a growl in his voice.

Bastien raised his hand to show he heard the Alpha, while he listened to the person on the other end of the phone. “Mmm, okay. That’s better than expected.” He sighed grimly at whatever was said. “And Alpha Tracy’s remains--?”

Derek paced back and forth restlessly in the tiny space of the brick walled courtyard behind Ransom’s house. It was illuminated only by the guttering light of ancient looking gas lamps, which made the shadows jump weirdly. It made for a strangely fitting atmosphere.

Bastien finished the call and turned to his captive audience, “Juliette says that they have accounted for all of the Pontrain pack, everyone is alive with the exception of Alpha Tracy and his body was incinerated yesterday. There’s no way he can be reanimated into a Rougarou from scattered ashes. As for the danger of the curse happening by accident to one of their pack members, the DeMolay emissary is working on a cure with Ransom’s assistance.” He scritched tiredly at his messy blond hair.

Everyone was tired and stressed from what occurred when they handed Shandra over to the Vampire Coven.

Danny yawned, blinking slowly.

Bas sagged against the closest wall. “Apparently there was a Rougarou attack a few years ago. A few wolves were killed in the attempt to take it down. Someone in the Pontrain Pack lost a mate. Shandra must have been experimenting with her powers to see if she could control the creature. Doesn’t sound like she was very successful.”

Peter was standing silently, looking up at the tiny sliver that remained of the waning moon. “She didn’t have to be _successful_ if all she wanted was to cause destruction,” he commented.

It made Derek uneasy. The dark emissary’s last move had been fueled by the need for retribution. His bittersweet relief at having found Stiles now seemed incredibly fragile and all he wanted to do was curl around the boy and scare off any and all who approached.

Danny’s head suddenly snapped up from where it was sleepily drooping over the café table. “Oh shit!” He exclaimed as something occurred to him. “You said they can’t come back or whatever from being cremated but what about being _bisected_?” He made a slashing motion with his hands to demonstrate his point.

Derek caught on immediately and cursed himself for not remembering, “Fuck!” He snarled, his eyes burning crimson. _How had he forgotten?_ Easily, he supposed. He’d been near feral by the need to get his mate to safety. Enough to overlook his enemies remains. Such a rookie mistake. _Shit!_

There was an exchange of glances, a mix of horror, shame, and uneasiness shared by those who had been at the cabin that night.

“Callum,” Bastien said name venomously, his eyes flashed gold. “Son’bitch.”

Peter sighed, sounding put out. “Well I guess you’ll have to borrow the boat from Alpha Juliette again. There’s a Rougarou to hunt.”

“We just got back!” Jackson threw up his arms in exasperation. At Derek’s unimpressed growl he muttered petulantly, “I fucking hate Louisiana.”

 

He couldn’t sleep.

Stiles rubbed his tired face in the pillow before continue staring blearily at the darkened sky. The shutters over the attic window had been cracked open in the last hurricane and they hadn’t had the time to fix them. At least it gave him something to look at while his brain ran in billions of unconnected circles.

He was hyper aware of Lydia’s soft puffs of breath as she slept deeply on the makeshift cot next to the bed. He was a little jealous at her ability to slumber away while he tossed and turned as the minutes turned passed into hours.

Apparently the others were concerned about leaving him by himself. Enough to assign him a babysitter on shifts. He wasn’t sure he disagreed with the decision although the company of an unfamiliar body was not helping his insomnia any.

There were too many thoughts in his head. He wished he had Dumbledore’s pensieve from Harry Potter. He could really appreciate the ability to pull memories from his overcrowded head and put them somewhere else to _‘examine them at one’s leisure.’_ Or never if Stiles had his way.

How weird was it that he was sharing a room with his long-time (and long ago, his traitorous thoughts added) crush. He felt nothing like his sixteen year old self would have expected. For one, there were no inappropriate boners or nervous sweats, laying in the dark a mere arm’s length away. Looking at Lydia’s profile through the darkness Stiles only felt a warm surge of platonic fondness. She’d turned out to be one of his most reliable and trusted friends. Lydia was fierce and scarily intelligent and once you got past the defensive walls to her heart she sunk her possessive hooks in you and there was no getting away. Which was probably why she was here. In Louisiana. Tracking his sorry ass down.

Stiles would have smiled if he could. 

If it wasn’t painful to remember the circumstances.

He couldn’t stop squirming between the sheets in his quest to find a sweet spot. It was made a billion times harder with what felt like a soccer ball under his ribs. It was impossible to sleep in his favorite position; on his belly in a space-eating sprawl, face mashed into a pillow. The baby had claimed prime real-estate and wasn’t ashamed to blackmail his bladder for compliance.

Not for the first time he wondered how he’d managed to forget his pillow back in Beacon Hills. He had equal amounts of homesickness for the pillow as he had for his poor Jeep. He wondered if he could bribe Lydia into a little B&E when she got back—

But that brought his thoughts reluctantly to his father. The disappointed look he imagined on his dad’s face haunted him. If Lydia and Derek knew where he was did that mean the rest of the pack knew as well? His stomach churned anxiously. He didn’t know he felt about that.

_I’m not going back._ They couldn’t make him. His heart began to pound at the thought. Were Ransom and Bas going to let them take him? They were looking awfully chummy with his old pack . . . what if they’d decided he was too much trouble? Would he have to run again?

Stiles’ tried to keep his breathing level but it was getting hard. He didn’t want to be alone again. And he couldn’t imagine it going any other way if they tried to make him return home. The pack made it clear they didn’t really want him. His Dad . . .

“Stiles?” a low voice called to him.

Stiffening in surprise, Stiles lifted his head from the pillows.

Derek was standing in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

Stiles didn’t know how to respond. “I’m--” _Sore, terrified, in an ADHD spiral, ashamed, angry, confused,_ “fine.” He said guardedly.

Derek took a step into the room. His features were hidden by the darkness. Stiles wished he could see his expression. His heart continued to thump along, its rapid rhythm bordering on panic levels. The Alpha had probably heard it from across the house, Stiles cursed himself silently for disturbing him.

“S-sorry if I woke you,” Stiles gave up trying to be quiet. He gasped for air through a constricted throat, his hand pressed to his chest in an attempt to regulate his breathing.

Derek slipped into the bed next to him. “Come here,” he offered softly holding his arm out.

He hesitated only for a second. Who was he kidding? Stiles ducked under Derek’s arm and shamelessly pressed his ear to the firm chest. The reassuring thump of the heartbeat under Stiles’ cheek was an instant soporific. He sagged into the man’s solid embrace.

“You didn’t disturb me,” Derek was saying as Stile’s galloping heartbeat began to settle. “We were downstairs.”

“I’m guessing you weren’t relaxing with a movie,” Stiles said, his lips mashed against the soft material of Derek’s t-shirt.

A hand settled respectfully but firmly on the back of Stiles’ neck and he suddenly went boneless at the touch. He may or may not have made an embarrassing gurgle.

“No,” Derek responded. His voice sounded suspiciously warm. Like he was smiling in the darkness.

Stiles left eyebrow twitched.

“W’r yew talking bout me?” he demanded, stirring enough to poke Derek in the side. He felt the burn of humiliation turning his complexion an uncomplimentary scarlet. _Of course they were talking about me; about how they had to rescue skinny helpless Stiles. Must be a day that ends in –y._

“We were talking about clean up,” Derek replied, not even flinching at the skinny finger digging relentlessly between his ribs. “A few of us may have to go out for a day or so to make sure it’s dealt with.” He added, softly.

That didn’t sound good. In fact that sounded like—

Stiles’ stomach dropped at the implication. What did Derek mean? Did Shandra get away?

“Derek--?” Stiles gulped, looking up at him eyes wide.

“No—hey!” Derek rushed to reassure, “You’re safe. I promise.” The arm draped over Stiles shoulder tightened. “God, fuck, Stiles—you don’t know how--!” _How I would kill them all to get you back—_ Derek left unsaid. It was a sobering thought. But one he didn’t feel like taking back. Because he would. He’d tear the world apart to find Stiles. To keep him safe.

Staring blindly out into the dark attic room Stiles felt Derek’s lips press tightly to his crown. His breathing hitched at the emotion held in check. How was this not a dream? How could he go from having to live every day with the raw emptiness of knowing Derek had not felt the same blinding connection he did—to now? Where the Alpha was _here_. Holding him like if he didn’t press close enough Stiles would turn to ephemeral smoke and wisp away.

This Derek was not the one he was used to. He was used to stoic Derek with his broody silences and expressive eyebrows. The one that thought it was okay to use grunts and growls as a legitimate form of communication.

He’d seen glimpses of this other Derek before he’d driven off into the Mexican sunset with Braeden. The rare soft quirk of his lips. A warm gleam of golden green flashing back from his eyes. Shared looks of commiseration. Or what Stiles had mistaken for _possibility._

But they were only glimpses.

And Stiles had known even then that he loved broody, knee-jerk, defensive Derek Hale. His Sourwolf. He’d loved the hints of what Derek was becoming too. He’d never been so foolish as to entertain the thought that his feelings would be reciprocated. See: Lydia Martin. Re: Sophomore Year. He had been well versed in unrequited love _long_ before the Romeo and Juliet shit show that had been Scott and Allison.

The Nogitsune had made sure to destroy any burgeoning hope Stiles’ had to ever be with the complex wolf.  He’d done his best to protect Derek while the thousand year old fox whispered poison in his ear, tortured him with vivid hallucinations of what he would do to Stiles’ most guarded secret. When Stiles tried desperately to contain the threat he posed by voluntarily locking himself up in Eichen House, the dark fox had gleefully shown him the error of his ways. What better way to feed on misery and chaos than to force the terrified boy into losing his virginity to another patient. All that self-contained and unrequited pure love he carried for Derek Hale, the Nogitsune surrendered to Malia; a were-coyote too vulnerable and unused to her human urges. 

His dad had said once, _“If you want to defeat your enemy; take away their courage. You take away their hope.”_

The Nogitsune had gleefully collected the shards of Stiles’ devastation and self-loathing and wrenched what was left of the boys control out of his hands. In that moment of bleak loss, Stiles had lost the will to fight.

“Stiles--?” Derek interrupted his spiraling thoughts. His dark brows were furrowed. “What are you thinking about?” The scent of shame was burning his nose.

Stiles blinked rapidly in an attempt to return himself to the present. He shuddered. “I’m so confused,” he muttered instead of admitting his thoughts. He shifted his eyes away. He was still ashamed of what had happened with Malia. Now he had—with—with Callum and even if every cell in his body wanted to hold onto Derek with every last molecule . . . all he could think of was how Callum’s rough hands had closed around him. How he’d . . .

Stiles shrank back. Even if Derek was an emotionally compromised potato lost on a puppy farm; he didn’t deserve someone as broken and dirty as him for a mate.

“No—stop,” Derek said aghast. “Stiles! What happened to you wasn’t your fault!”

Stiles realized he had said his thoughts out loud. His heartbeat tripped with dismay.

“Do you—” Derek paused. “Do you think that about me? About what happened with Kate? Or Jennifer?”

That froze Stiles right in place. “No!” He blurted hotly, “That’s dif--”

Shaking his head slowly, Derek pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’ knuckles. “It’s not. Stiles, it’s not.” He exhaled heavily. “I know you won’t believe me. Not now. Not for a while. But I promise I’ll prove it to you. Just like you proved it to me.”

“—Derek?!”

He barely saw the slight curve of the Alpha’s lips in the darkness. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Everything you did for me? All the times you stood up for me? Made me use my head, or showed in some way that I wasn’t alone? I admit, I was too blind with anger to see what it meant at first, but if there’s one thing that you are, Stiles. It’s persistent.”

“You mean annoying,” Stiles huffed, feeling himself blush to his irritation.

“Annoying, persistant, fucking _loyal_. You were there when no one else was.” Derek huffed fondly, “You have no idea what that meant, what that _means_ , to me.”

Stiles’ throat was tight. “You hurt me.”

“I did,” Derek softly agreed. His eyes were dark with regret. “I really fucked up. I’m so sorry Stiles.

Stiles stared at him wordlessly.

In the end, he reached silently for Derek’s hands. The Alpha remained quiet, waiting for Stiles to explain what he was doing. Instead, Stiles drew his hands between the sheets to rest on the gentle swell of his belly where his shirt had ridden up in his restless squirming.

Derek’s breath caught, his gaze open and vulnerable as he gazed at Stiles’ searchingly, wonderingly. “Stiles?”

“Protect her,” Stiles said, his fingers trembled as he pressed Derek’s hands to where his little moonbeam slept. “Just promise me you will protect her.”

“I will protect you both with my life,” Derek vowed, his eyes flaring Alpha red at the promise.  

“You too,” Stiles said intently, refusing to release his grip until Derek understood. “You need to protect yourself too. Derek.”

Derek was lost for words. _This boy_ — _he didn’t deserve him_. “I promise.”

Nodding sleepily, Stiles’ grip slackened. “Good,” he exhaled. “S’tpd wolf.”

Derek’s startled grin was white in the darkness but Stiles missed it, he was already asleep.

 

“So you’re going back to school?” the voice woke Danny from the sleep he was finally sinking deeply into.

He groaned. Reaching over his head he shoved his pillow over his face and muffled a frustrated noise. “Really Jackson?” He lifted his head after a moment, “You want to catch up now?”

Jackson’s face was pale in the moonlight. He was pouting. “Well, why not?”

Danny didn’t hold back the eye-roll. “Because it’s 3:00 in the morning that’s why. I’m fucking tired man!”

“When are you leaving?” Jackson prodded stubbornly.

“Well, I _am_ in College and I can’t afford to flunk my freshman year. Not even for werewolves. We have to go back,” Danny explained in exasperation. “We’ll stay until you guys get back from the swamp.”

“We?” Jackson latched on to predictably.

“Yeah, Lydia is even more serious about her studies than me, you know that.” Danny rubbed his aching eyes. “Come on, you have to have been accepted to school somewhere. You’re marks weren’t that horrible.”

“I deferred,” Jackson said, making a tight expression. “Didn’t seem as important as figuring how the hell I suddenly had a long lost father and twin-sister.”

Danny abruptly sat up in the makeshift cot, “What?”

Jackson grimaced. “Yeah.”

“No, I mean. _What?_ ” Danny whipped his pillow at his childhood friend. “ _How?!_ ”

Clearing his throat in self-consciousness, Jackson couldn’t look at him. “You know how we thought my real parents died in a car accident when my mom was pregnant? The report was faked.

“But I looked at those reports myself!” Danny exclaimed in disbelief. In fact it was the reason he’d almost been charged when he was thirteen. Thank god for Sheriff Stilinski (Well, it had been Deputy Stilinski then).

Jackson nodded. “Gordon and Margaret Miller were real people. So was the--the baby. But.” He swallowed. “Apparently I was switched in secret to keep my real parentage a secret.”

Danny sat back in shock. “Jackson.”

“They gave my sister to another family.” He looked up at Danny, his gaze uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I never even knew.”

Danny scrambled over to Jackson’s cot and it spoke of friendship that stood the test of time that Jackson unashamedly held up the sheets for his friend to climb in order to offer the comfort he desperately needed.

“Who’s your sister?” Danny asked in a hushed voice.

Jackson looked up at him somewhat hopefully, “I haven’t met her. But you have, I think. Malia Tate--?”

Danny blinked rapidly. _“--Malia?”_

The ex-Lacrosse captain was looking at him in anticipation.

“She’s—a character.” Danny said, his lips twitching.

Jackson scowled. He shoved Danny lightly. “ _What--?!_ ”

“In the yearbook she wrote, ‘I love deer,’” Danny smirked, his dimples flashing. “Jackson, she _ate_ the cafeteria special. She _liked_ it.”

“Well, she lived in the wild for eight years,” Jackson sulked.

“Yes. And then Stiles Stilinski socialized her.” Danny gleefully pointed out.

Jackson smothered his face in the pillow, “fkmylf,”

Voice sobering, Danny asked, “What about your real parents?”

His face stayed in the pillow for a few more seconds. Then he flipped over with a groan. “Danny, if I ever complain about not knowing my origins ever again I give you permission to wreck my Porche.”

Danny blinked in shock.

Jackson draped an arm over his eyes. “My mother is a were coyote and assassin who tried to kill us when we were babies and my father . . . Peter Hale . . . went insane and killed everyone responsible for the Hale fire. Then I helped kill _him_.”

Danny was quiet as he processed his thoughts. Not least of which was ‘ _then_ _how the hell is Peter Hale down the hall?!’_ , “Do you wish you could take it back? **Not** know?” He asked quietly.

Jackson lifted his arm from his face. He looked at Danny. “Nah. As fucking insane as it is, it finally all makes sense.”

Nodding, Danny agreed, “Yep. I always thought you were your own kind of special asshole.”

Jackson sighed. But there was a small smile on his face. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Danny made himself comfortable and closed his eyes. “Yeah you are.”

 

John shoved his carry-on bag into the over-head compartment before sinking into the window seat with a heavy sigh.

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Kira asked nervously from across the aisle.

Scott finished buckling in next to the Sheriff. He stared straight ahead, his jaw muscles clenched. “Yes. Stiles is _our_ responsibility.” Scott realized how stony that might have sounded and darted a look over at John hoping he hadn’t noticed. Thankfully the Sheriff looked like he was preoccupied checking his messages from the Station.

Scott amended, “I don’t trust Derek to have Stiles’ best interests in mind.”

Kira looked hesitant. “But the baby is Derek’s. He’d never do anything to harm them.”

Scott’s fingers tightened on the armrests at the mention of the baby. “Derek has a really poor track record of keeping his family members alive.” He said harshly.

The True Alpha missed the way Kira’s eyes widened at his comment. She bit her lip uncertainly and looked down at the textbook she was fiddling with in her lap. She couldn’t imagine anything so negative of Derek Hale. He’d always been so kind to her. She was beginning to wonder if Melissa was right and they needed to keep their distance.

Well, it was too late now, she thought regretfully as the plane gave a lurch down the runway. She could only hope to act as a voice of reason before Scott or Stiles’ father did something irreparable.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a quick Ch because I'm away again for another week and can't fathom being near a computer enough to finish the last scene I had in mind so enjoy a bit of flangst. Well, more fluff than anything really. Sorry for any grammatical issues.
> 
> Song to read by: Like a Candle Burning Slow - Danger Silent

The next morning came earlier than anyone wanted. Ransom made sure everyone was suffering as much as she was by starting up her beloved expresso machine and using the steamer. The high pitched whistle was guaranteed to wake each and every wolf.

The rich full bodied scent of freshly ground coffee beans reached Stiles’ nose and he groaned longingly. “ _Coffee_ — _!_ ” He executed a practiced side roll and cumbersome heave forward (this was a recent upgrade from the patented Stilinski roll and drop) or at least he _would_ have. He found himself unable to raise his torso from the mattress beyond a few optimistic inches. He let out a surprised _‘uua--uff’_ as he dropped back down.

There was a heavy weight pinning him. Stiles squinted at the offending item that was preventing him from caffeinating. In his confusion he patted the very muscular arm draped over his chest, squeezing the firm rounded pec in his face as though it would help make sense why it was there. He blinked, trying to clear his bleary eyes. Before he could find the opportunity to feed the increasing tendrils of fretfulness there came a muffled response.

“No coffee,” Derek grumped through the corner of his mouth not hidden by the pillow he’d covered his head with to block the harsh screeching and grinding sounds of Ransom’s expresso machine.

“But--” Stiles squirmed under the arm, pinned like an entomologist’s butterfly.  “Coffee!!”

“If there’s decaf you can have some, otherwise no.” Lydia contributed. She was busy sweeping her sleep mussed hair back off her face into a neat ponytail. She gave Stiles’ belly a pointed glance and he deflated in realization.

“Shit.” He legit wanted to cry. The coffee smelled fucking divine.

Derek responded to his disappointment by lifting the pillow off his face and squinting in his direction, “What do you want for breakfast? I’ll make you whatever you want.” Damn him, he looked so earnest.

Stiles couldn’t help quirking a lopsided smile at the wolf. A soft lock of dark hair swept over Derek’s forehead while the rest kind of resembled a wild bramble. “Do you know how to make waffles?”

Derek nodded solemnly. “With bacon?”

“Apology bacon?” Stiles asked before he could help himself. He sucked in his lips as if he could take the words back.

The lines around Derek’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. Stiles blinked in amazement at the image. “If that’s what you want. I think they should be ‘I hate to leave you so soon but I’ll be back’ bacon.”

Stiles’ didn’t like the reminder. He chewed on his lip anxiously. “Derek--”

“Hey,” Derek pulled Stiles in for a hug, making sure it was welcome first. “It will be fine. I just want to make sure we took care of everything.” He rubbed his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head.

Stiles frowned into Derek’s shoulder. On one hand he wanted to know what Derek and the others were going out to _‘take care of’_ , but on the other—

He blinked out of a hollow stare.

On the other, he wasn’t ready to think about the details of what happened yet.

“Be careful.” Stiles mumbled into Derek’s sleep warm skin. He discretely rubbed his nose along Derek’s collarbone, relishing the familiar woodsy smell that had haunted his dreams for so long. “Please.” He added.

He felt Derek nod. “I will.”

“Bathrooms free,” Lydia gently interrupted their moment. She gave Stiles a reassuring smile.

Derek gently squeezed Stiles’ upper arms, “I’ll go start your waffles okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles said. He couldn’t help leaning after Derek as the Alpha pulled away. He gave himself a shake. He couldn’t cling to the werewolf forever. He deliberately smoothed the wrinkles in the sheets under his hands in order to keep them busy.

Stiles tightened his lips in determination. Ok. Shower. He could do that.

 

There were many reasons why Stiles stressed about being in the bathroom; or in the bathtub in particular. He tried not to look too closely at himself as he undressed. It was a bad enough reminder that he could feel the aches left over from the bruises littering his pale skin but to examine them would be like acknowledging what, or _who_ , had made them in the first place. Stiles swallowed around the heavy lump in his throat.

_Fuck you, Callum._

He could do this. He could take a fucking shower.

Stiles was pretty adept by now at not looking at his reflection. It was hard to see the tired shadows under his eyes; they reminded him strongly of his time as the Nogitsune. Examining his full length reflection was also a definite no-no. He was not comfortable at seeing how his formerly lanky frame now carried a very distinctive swell round the midsection. He found it too grotesque to look at for long. As much as he’d grown attached to his little hitchhiker he couldn’t get comfortable with the changes it brought to his body.

Stiles took a fortifying breath and stepped carefully into the tub. As he reached for the faucet he realized how badly his hand was shaking. His attackers were gone, he had to remind himself. He was safe. He was at home. His pack was here. Derek was downstairs. He exhaled slowly.  

It wasn’t until he was standing fully naked in the shower stall with the water pouring down his back that he realized he wasn’t supposed to get the bandages on his hands wet.

Dropping his chin to his chest in frustration, Stiles huffed hard out his nose.

_“Lydia--?!”_

 

Derek was lucky that Ransom’s kitchen seemed to be well stocked in breakfast food. He found the ingredients for his mother’s buttermilk waffles reasonably easily. He absent-mindedly acknowledged the others as they eased their way around him in the small kitchen in order to get to the precious coffee. He was otherwise focused on making his mate breakfast. 

Someone leaned up against the counter next to him as he stirred the batter. He gave them the side-eye. It was Bastien. The flaxen-haired werewolf was relaxed and soft looking in nothing but a pair of jersey sleep pants. The muscles in Derek’s jaw jumped in irritation.

“You seem to be good with him,” Bastien commented easily as he took a sip of coffee.

It took all his restraint not to growl at the interloper. What kind of statement was that?! Derek was trying not to let his possessive instincts ruin his chances with Stiles. And as much as this confident beta rankled him, he had no right to question Stiles’ taste in friends or try to throw his Alpha weight around. Derek knew Stiles would be the opposite of appreciative. Not to mention what Lydia would say.

“I’ve known Stiles a long time,” Derek settled on saying instead of the knee-jerk, **_he’s my mate_** that he wanted to snarl instead.

“Are you the Alpha he barely talks about?” Bastien asked, his eyes carefully on the opposite wall.

Derek’s fingers tightened around the spoon and he glared at the batter. “That would be Scott McCall,” he answered, his voice taking a deeper pitch with his displeasure.

Bas shot Derek a surprised look, “Stiles is not in your pack?”

Derek stopped stirring. “He was always pack,” he said seriously, keeping his eyes on the backs of his fingers. “Stiles just assumed he wasn’t in mine.”

That seemed to give Bastien something to think about. He was quiet while Derek hunted down the waffle iron.

The warm vanilla scent of waffles brought the reluctant stragglers into the kitchen. Danny cut off mid-yawn at the sight of shirtless wonder that greeted his bleary eyes. He cleared his throat, “I could get used to breakfast like this,” he said before his filter could catch up with his mouth. His gaze slipped hurriedly yet appreciatively over Derek’s and then Bastien’s 8-packs. Jackson snorted at his friend’s preoccupation.

“As long as I don’t find chest hair in my waffles,” Ransom commented vaguely as she read something on her phone.

Derek’s eyebrow arched at her incredulously.

She lifted her eyes, sensing the attention shift to her. “What?” She gestured at Derek’s ruggedly furred _everything_. “Coulda wore an apron.”

He’d noted the ruffled monstrosity hanging on the back of a hook earlier. It had colors not even his werewolf sight could register. So that was a hard pass.

“You can always have cereal,” Derek defensively tried to unlock his teeth.

Ransom waved her phone at him to continue. “And miss the taste sensation? No way, sugar.”

Derek turned back to manning the hot waffle iron and the steadily disappearing pile of waffles. He made sure to save himself, Stiles, and Lydia each a serving. Otherwise breakfast seemed to be a hit with everyone. Even despite the possibility of chest hair, he thought dryly.

He tucked the last of the waffles in the oven to keep warm and waited for Stiles and Lydia to come downstairs.

Peter came to an abrupt stop inside the kitchen door. He eyed the plate of waffles Jackson held out to him like they were pit vipers. His nostrils flared. He looked up at Derek with widening eyes. “Are those Talia’s—?”

Derek’s stomach clenched with a traitorous mix of sympathy and vindictiveness. It was admittedly awkward to be exposed to his Uncles normally shielded emotions. It made him hugely uncomfortable.

He shifted his gaze away from Peter which was answer enough. He knew there was no mistaking the unique scent of vanilla, orange and honey he’d added to the batter. It was the smell of family and love. Of Hale Pack.

Making an aborted attempt to swallow the involuntary wounded noise he made, Peter snatched the plate from a confused Jackson and made a swift retreat towards the living room. For a moment no one moved until a hopeful Gansey heaved to his feet from his fallen food watch under the kitchen table to follow the former Alpha.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” Ransom said, brandishing her fork, “But these angst waffles better live up to the hype or you’re taking us all out to IHOP.”

Derek cut off his answering growl that he didn’t make the waffles for _them._ He’d only mostly be lying.

That’s when Stiles and Lydia made it down to the kitchen and his attention was wrenched to the hesitant approach of his mate.

“It smells good . . ?” Stiles said awkwardly, looking wan at all the attention he was getting from his friends.

Ransom kicked Jackson in the shin underneath the kitchen table. He yelped in affront unaware of her reason for attack until he realized she expected him to give up his seat for Stilinski. Jackson huffed in annoyance but eventually stood up to offer Stiles the chair. He leaned up next to Danny who was standing in front of the dishwasher looking at the Christina Aguilera magnets curiously.

She beamed at the arrival of the Spark. “Hey you! Sit and eat. Cave man over there made waffles!”

Bemused, Stiles shot a glance at a blushing Derek Hale. “I can’t wait to try them.”

His witchy friend popped a triangle of waffle in her mouth, “There’s a secret ingredient!” She informed him cheerfully around her mouthful.

Derek’s shoulders sagged as Stiles quirked an eyebrow. “A secret . . . ingredient?” Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Not when Ransom was acting so maniacal.

“It’s my family’s recipe,” Derek said helplessly, trying to fend off her accusations.

“Really?” Stiles exclaimed in surprise. He was waiting for the Alpha to get his plate from the oven. He lifted his gaze to meet the green and blue of Derek’s intense gaze. His belly flipped at the way he was being studied.

Derek tilted his chin in confirmation. His neck and ears still suspiciously flushed.

“That’s amazing Derek.” Stiles said, “Thank you.” The fact that the Alpha was sharing such a personal part of his history _was_ amazing. It was downright uncharacteristic. That pulled a smile out of Stiles. A soft private one shared between the two of them.

“Hair!” Exclaimed Ransom.

Stiles turned back to look at the witch in bewilderment. “What?!”

“Chest hair. Totally. In the mix.” Ransom gleefully held aloft a small strand of hair she’d pulled from her plate.

There was a chorus of groans and a huff of disgust from Lydia.

Bastien leaned over the back of Ransom’s chair and deliberately tested the air around the strand. His blue eyes twinkled. “Sorry to burst your hirsute-hating bubble but that’s Ganseys.”

Ransom gagged. “Ugh gross.” Then she took another bite of her waffles with an unaffected shrug.

Stiles felt like he was missing something but that something was probably best left missing. He took his first bite of the waffles and closed his eyes with a surprised moan. “Oh. Oh man.” He chewed the rest of his mouthful and swallowed. “Oh that’s good.”

Lydia’s eyes were wide at the unabashed sounds Stiles was making. “Okay. I think I should try one of these waffles!” She was normally a coffee for breakfast only, girl. But today she would make an exception.

Derek had dropped the spatula he was holding at the first moan and he whirled around to wash it off in the sink, his face burning. He had to will his claws back at the pleased sounds his cooking had coaxed from Stiles. It would _not_ be appropriate to throw his pregnant mate over his shoulder and take him upstairs.

He struggled to breathe deeply and calmly. _Alpha, Beta, Omega . . ._

“You know what would go great with this?” Stiles said, his eyes searching the kitchen.

“What?” Bastien asked.

Stiles made an excited noise when he saw what he was looking for. “Peanut butter!”

The kitchen erupted with shouts of dismay and startled bursts of laughter.


	28. Periculum-Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while. So much travelling and shit. Holy balls. Anyway. Here's the next chapter. It's short-ish. I didn't originally plan it to be in two parts but then Peter. He and my muse did a thing. So we can blame him. 
> 
> Music to read by: Pieces by Red

After Derek and the others left it was like a bit of a pall settled over the house. Stiles was jittery and couldn’t relax knowing that they were going back out to the cabin where he had been held against his will. Lydia and Ransom tried to keep him occupied but he could tell by the twitch near Lydia’s right eye that his fidgeting was getting under her skin.

“Sorry guys,” Stiles stopped chewing on the tips of his fingers. He tried subtly to wipe the spit covered digits on the seat of his sleep pants.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Lydia sighed, looking abashed and a bit grossed out. “But seriously Stiles you need to find something to do or you’ll go crazy.”

“Crazier,” Ransom corrected her with a cheeky smile.

“I know,” Stiles huffed, ignoring Ransom. “But I just . . . how will we know if they need backup?” he suddenly burst out. “What if something happens and Danny loses the GPS signal and they get lost? What if Jackson gets eaten by an alliga—no wait that’s fine. That’s great actually.” He pursed his lips and lifted his brows as if enjoying the thought.

Lydia halfheartedly swatted the section of his arm that she could reach.

It brought a small but sincere smile to his lips.

“Were you looking for something to do?” Bastien popped his blond head around the kitchen entry.  

Stiles suddenly straightened up and made as if he was organizing Lydia’s homework. “Nope. No. I’m good.” He tapped the pile of papers into one big pile.

“Hey!” Lydia cried in outrage, “I had that organized into surface and volume integrals!”

Eeping, Stiles turned towards the werewolf. “Um. I suppose I could be torn away?!”

“Uh huh.”

Lydia’s unimpressed huff followed Stiles drooping shoulders out of the kitchen.

“Do I have to?” Stiles whined at Bastien’s flexing back as he followed him to the Were’s temporary bedroom/library. Which was actually the first bedroom Stiles’ had stayed in at Ransom’s house. Bastien had cleared the floor space for yoga practice. A daily practice that Stiles had not missed in the past week or so that he had been . . . gone.

Bastien rolled out a pair of yoga mats, “I strongly suggest easing back into activity with a few gentle stretches, yes.” He confirmed. “Your blood pressure is higher than I’d like.”

At this, Stiles reluctantly took a few more steps into the room. He was worried about the blood pressure too. His hand brushed over his swell unconsciously. “And this is supposed to help?”

Bastien straightened from nudging the mats into place. “Any kind of gentle exercise is good but yoga is particularly helpful with preparing the body for birth.”

Stiles blanched. “I didn’t need to know that.”

At Bastien’s wry smile, Stiles took his place on his mat. He was already wearing comfortable clothes; a soft t-shirt and sleep pants so he was as ready as he was going to get. Although, as he looked at Bastien’s perfect jersey covered ass he couldn’t help but feel extra self-conscious of the unnatural bump pulling his lanky center of gravity out of alignment.

It was with a shaky sigh that he mimicked the other man’s mountain pose before they began their usual gentle set of stretches.

 

It was clear that Cora didn’t realize anyone was home Chris realized as he and Isaac came to a halt in the front entrance. The younger woman came sliding around the corner screaming the lyrics to some song that she was clearly listening to on her headphones. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt that (thankfully) hung mid-thigh and big fluffy nyan-cat socks. Said socks were clearly the vehicle for Cora’s wild and satisfying slide across the expanse of the long hall that practically bisected the first floor.

She came to a stop ‘Risky Business’ style, almost nose to nose with Isaac who was quivering with equal amounts of amusement and terror. Chris chewed the inside of his lip as Cora opened her eyes and let out a startled squawk at seeing she was no longer alone. She leapt backwards, eyes flashing gold out of reflex.

Knocking the headphones off her head with a wild sweep of her arm, Cora sputtered in embarrassment. “W-what are you guys doing here?!”

“The pizza place was closed, sprinkler malfunction. So we grabbed take out,” Chris held up the Mc Donald’s bags for examination. “Sorry to startle you.”

Cora gave an eye roll, it seemed mostly aimed at herself. She cleared her throat, cheeks slightly rosy. “It’s my own fault. Wanted to get some fun in before Grumpy gets home.”

“Derek?” Isaac managed not to sound too strangled.

Shrugging, Cora replied scornfully, “Either him or Lydia. When they get home I’m expecting to have to put up with coasters under my drinks and sitting my ass on plastic couch covers.”

Chris hid his smirk as he walked past the teens in the direction of the kitchen.

The house was coming together rather nicely. It was still missing a large amount of furniture but with Cora here now they were making a little bit more progress. A few rooms still needed to be painted and little details attended to but that was left for the Alpha to finalize. Still, with just the three of them it felt very empty.

Chris unpacked the fast food and set it out for the others to divvy up. They chose to perch on the cast iron bar stools Derek had repurposed from the warehouse where his old loft had been. With Lydia’s long-distance influence they now had a pack house that had an Industrial/California coastal feel to it. Definitely a strange marriage of decorating styles but somehow it worked.

Somewhere Cora had found a pair of denim shorts to slip on so Isaac wasn’t stabbing himself in the eyeball with fries. Again.

Isaac tore his gaze away, “Any word when Derek’s coming back?”

Chris shook his head, waiting till his mouth was clear of food. “Not yet. There was a complication.”

Cora put down her cheeseburger abruptly, “Complication? Are Stiles and the baby alright?” She asked urgently.

Realizing his mistake, Chris raised his hands in surrender. “They’re fine. Apparently Derek and the others have to deal with a spell that was triggered when the Emissary was taken by the Vampire Coven.”

“Oh that sounds so much better,” Cora said sarcastically. “I’m so relieved.”

Isaacs grinned around his food.

It was too his dismay Chris realized he caught himself in mid Hale-eyeroll. He hoped the other two didn’t notice. “Stiles is safe,” he emphasized. “Derek is spearheading a group to take care of the spell. They have the support of a local pack. It sounds to me like they are well prepared.”

Cora sullenly popped a fry into her mouth. “I won’t be happy until everyone is back here.”

Even Chris had to admit that for the youngest Hale, Cora seemed to be making a lot of progress. For as little as he knew her he’d noticed a marked improvement in her attitude since she officially recognized her brother as Alpha and joined the rest of the newly reborn Hale pack, first in Brazil and more recently in Beacon Hills. It was like her defensive walls were finally crumbling.

“I can understand that,” Chris said tactfully. He added under his breath, “It would be nice to have someone else for the Sheriff to glare at.”

Cora snorted. “He’s still blaming everyone else for his mistakes?”

Shrugging uncomfortably, Chris said around his burger, “Sometimes it’s hard for a parent to admit when they’re wrong.”

Isaac shifted in his seat. “Melissa still making sure he’s dry?”

Chris’ sharp gaze flashed over to the young man in a knowing way. Isaac was avoiding his gaze. “Yes. She has keys to the Stilinski house and between her and Stiles they knew all the Sheriffs’ hiding spots. He would have to drink in public and we know why he can’t do that.”

Nodding jerkily Isaac seemed satisfied enough. He mumbled something though. It was too low for Chris to hear, but clearly Cora heard him by the stricken expression on her face.

“Isaac--!” Cora said breathlessly. “You know no one in the pack would expose a child to abuse right? His dad an alcoholic or otherwise. Stiles would never--!” She aborted a reach for the younger man when it seemed that he was lost in some kind of horrible recollection. She shared a helpless look with Chris.

It took a moment, clearing his throat of the obstruction he found there before Chris could find his voice. “Isaac,” he started in his deep gravelly voice, “as much as it pains me to say it. I don’t believe there is a member of this pack that is _not_ a stranger to some kind of abuse. I can say with absolute certainty.” and here he made sure that the werewolf was meeting his gaze, “no one would stand by and let another pack member suffer. Let alone an innocent child.”

It was strange but even Cora seemed to be hanging on to his words. Chris realized how unbelievably poignant the moment was when a Hale could listen to and believe an Argent’s unwavering alliance. He felt incredibly fortunate. It was in these moments that he could almost feel Allison present. He hoped she would’ve been proud of him.

“I know we’re not perfect,” Chris felt he had to add, “but we’ve come a long way. The pack is worlds more unified than it was when you were first turned.”

Isaac let out a long breath that seemed to release a lot of tension, “I know,” he acknowledged finally, lifting his eyes. “I just feel . . . unsettled.”

Cora nodded. “It’s because the pack is split up. You’ll feel better when Derek gets back.”

His answering smile was weak but grateful.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the front door. The trio exchanged confused expressions. No work was scheduled for today at the house. They weren’t expecting guests.

Chris stood up.

He could feel the presence of the two werewolves trailing him curiously as he walked to the front entrance. Checking out the side window for identification before opening the door Chris frowned,

“Mel? What are you doing here?”

Standing on the porch, shifting nervously from one foot to the other was Melissa McCall.

“Have you been talking to Scott or John recently?” She demanded. Her eyes looked smudged with exhaustion and stress.

“No,” Chris replied, “Not since our meeting. Only seen them in passing once or twice. Why?”

“I got a call from the Yukimura’s. Her parents wanted to know why Kira was skipping school to catch a flight to Louisiana.” Melissa’s sarcasm was sharp despite her obvious mental state, “and guess what. My son is nowhere to be found. Neither, it seems, is our beloved Sheriff.”

Chris cursed with feeling. His fingers were already pressing Derek’s number and lifting the phone to his ear while Isaac and Cora cried out angrily behind him. He had to warn his Alpha that they had unwelcome visitors incoming.

The call to Derek’s phone went unanswered. He was already out of range. Chris grimaced, thoughts racing as he tried to come up with a solution.

He had to warn Stiles.

 

John was certainly feeling the two hour time difference as he came out of his meeting with the NOPD Superintendent of Public Affairs. If he wanted to find his son in New Orleans it would help to have the assistance of the Compliance Bureau. The McCall Pack didn’t have the help of a computer systems savant like apparently _Hale_ did.

He stabbed the elevator button rather harshly at the thought. It was with such a bitter sense of betrayal that he thought of all the times he let Derek into the house to search for sign of Stiles. He let the younger man look over all his evidence of his son all the while thinking they were working together towards a common goal. He had trusted Derek to bring him any news, any _sign_ of Stiles. So much so that he hadn’t even realized the Alpha had left the state before it was already done. He’d been so goddamn trusting--!!

To find out that not only had Derek Hale had left him, not only in the dust, but in the dark. It was only circumstance that he found out from Argent that his son. His only son. Was pregnant (?!?!He was gay?!?!) by one. Derek. Hale.  

So while he tried to minimize the red tape in a new city, Scott and Kira were canvassing the neighborhood for any word or sign of Stiles or the others.

 _The hell I’m just going to let Derek knock up my son and then run away with him!_ John thought in vexation as the elevator doors slid open. A startled breath drew his attention to the officer standing across from him. John imagined the stormy scowl he must have on his face and raised his hand in apology.

“Sorry, it’s been a day.” He said in a clipped voice.

“Can I help you?” The officer asked uncertainly.

“Yes.” John slid a document across the desktop. “I’m looking for copies of these recordings.”

The young woman, her name tag said Wash, scanned the list in front of her with an assessing gaze. She nodded briefly, noting the Superintendents signature at the bottom of the document. “Of course. If you want to have a seat I’ll go gather the transcripts.”

“Thanks,” he sighed as his ass dropped into an uncomfortable plastic torture chair. He was familiar with the process. This could take a while.

 

Having disappeared into the rows of filing stacks, Officer Wash dug out her cellphone and pressed the first contact on her list. She lifted the cell to her ear.

“Emma?” A female voice answered.

“Alpha,” She began respectfully, “I’m at work and a Sherriff John Stah-lyn-skee from Beacon Hills California just requested all the body and in-car cams for the past three months. He’s looking for the Spark.”

There was a pause on the other end and then, “Thank you Wash. I’ll deal with this.”

Emma Wash blinked for a moment, not expecting that response. It was usually a delegation.

“Yes . . . yes Alpha.” She stuttered out her surprise.

“It’s okay Wash. Thank you for the heads up.” Her Alpha sounded amused. _That_ was more familiar. Emma sent her gaze skyward in fond exasperation.

 

Juliette tucked her phone back into the pocket inside her large black leather bag as she walked away from the Court House. Her eyes scanned the late afternoon crowd out of habit but her thoughts were laser sharp.

So Peter Hale was right. The boy’s former pack were on the way to pick up the pieces. His father was recklessly involving the local police without thinking of the possible repercussions. The young True Alpha had arrived and continued his ill planned search without announcing his arrival or intent to the local Pack. He hadn’t even contacted any of the local supernatural so she couldn’t even forgive his ignorance for simple lack of knowledge. You literally could not move a block in New Orleans without tripping over something that pinged a Werewolf’s radar. The only explanation she was left with was that this Scott McCall was arrogant.

Her heels clacked sharply on the flagstone as she walked down the sidewalk. Her hands curled into fists at the thought of an arrogant upstart Alpha wandering unannounced in her territory. Juliette had to focus on not flashing her eyes.

She was given plenty of room as the crowd hurried home. It was like they sensed she was not one to be messed with. Outwardly she may have looked rather unassuming. Attractive and well-dressed maybe, but not exactly one to part the supper-crowd for. Yet there they were parting like the red sea.

She gave an inward sigh. Nothing like painting a target on herself.  She worked on calming herself back down. She didn’t want to give a passing hunter more of an excuse to call her out on her behavior. Especially not with her recent power up, as Peter called it.

Her lips twitched as she recalled the intriguing man. He was proving to be a challenging mystery. Not to mention attractive in Italo Zucchelli. She allowed herself a moment of dreamlike recall. Then shook it off with a regretful sigh. She dug out her phone again as she pushed through the doorway to a Starbucks.

“Superintendent Jacobs please,” She said into her shoulder as she paid for her usual order of Cappuccino. “Hi Ted. Oh I’m great thank you for asking. How’s Marie, did her surgery go well?” She took a cautious sip of her drink as she took a seat at an available table. “That’s good news. Tell her I said hello. Yes. Mmhmm. Yes. I’m calling actually about a visitor to the city that may have been to your office recently. Yes, He’s a Sheriff. Sheriff Stilinski I believe?” Juliette tapped her fingernail absently on the clean table. “Well, ordinarily I wouldn’t have an issue with it. However did he happen to mention his Alpha is yet unannounced in the city? Oh yes.” She sat back in her chair. “I’m glad you asked Teddy. I’d really like to make it clear that sort of insult to our hospitality is unacceptable.”

The chair opposite was pulled out and Juliette raised a brow as Peter helped himself to the seat with an enigmatic smile. She had to repress the urge to smile back.

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

She ended the call and blinked patiently at the smug man spinning her cappuccino mug.

He raised his brows and damn those blue eyes!

“You were right,” Juliette said wryly.

Peter Hale leaned back in his chair with a modest shrug. “I usually am.”

She ignored his preening. “Is your Alpha aware of the threat?”

“My . . . nephew,” Peter paused deliberately, “Is by now, deep in the bayou, tracking something he doesn’t have the proper resources or skills to find. But he needs to feel like he’s doing something to protect Stiles. Once he comes to that realization he’ll be back. But not in time to confront Scott McCall.”

“So it’s up to us.”

Peter’s smile was gleaming and sharp. “It will be my _pleasure_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story that never ends. . . it goes on and on my friend . . . some writer started writing it not knowing what it was . . . and she'll continue writing it forever just because . . . this is the story that never ends . . .


	29. Three Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to remind you about TRIGGERS people. If you have dem you probably shouldn't read this fic. Just in this Chapter alone we have threats of violence, threats of harm to an unborn child, medical needle use, parental abuse, past and present tense abuse, no beta because the writer is impatient, and chocolate.
> 
> GASP
> 
> Song to read by: In Love With A Liar - Green or Blue
> 
> May we all have a better 2018 my lovelies
> 
> **updated 1/13/18 with amazeballs banner gifted by Faladrast (checkout on FB) a fan and gifted digital artist. Many kissez to you Faladrast!!!

 

It sounded like a dying whale had locked itself in the bathroom.

“OOOOH my _god_ could somebody please get me a Reece’s Pieces?!” the cry came from bathroom.

Lydia looked grossed out. “He just threw up!” She whisper-shouted incredulously.

Bastien’s nose was wrinkled a little, no doubt smelling the unfortunate aroma wafting from the locked room where Stiles had holed himself up for the past few minutes, steadfastly refusing to let anyone in to ‘hold his hair omg Ransom personal space’. “Pregnant—people,” the werewolf quickly adapted, “often have unusual cravings.”

Stiles let out another resplendent splashing groan.

Ransom was leaning against the door by her forehead, her ruby painted fingernails scrabbling pathetically along the wooden surface. “Let me in Stiles!”

“Gyuh—,” came the exhausted response. “Not until Bas gets rid of his eggs bennie . . . n’somebody gets me my Reese’s.”

“Oh for—” Lydia muttered. She pulled out her cellphone and began tapping away as she headed back to the living room at the front of the house.

“I’m sorry Stiles,” Bastien apologized, looking appropriately chastened, “I didn’t realize. I’ll go get rid of the sandwich.”

The last person left in the hallway, Ransom huffed at the locked door. With a muttered breath and a twitch of her fingers, the locking mechanism gave way.

“Hey!” Stiles protested weakly from his hunched over position on the side of the bathtub. He looked wan and sweaty. “That’s cheating.”

Ransom shrugged. “Your being extra. I need to make sure my grandbaby is okay.”

Stiles snorted weakly. “You’re only a couple of years older than me. How does that make you her grandmother?”

Ransom reached for a fresh facecloth and ran it under the cold tap before responding, “Everyone knows Russian’s have the best babushka.”

Stiles grin flickered as the cold cloth was gently applied to the back of his clammy, sweaty neck.

“Thought you were done with the whole,” Ransom made an unattractive barfing face.

“Yeah well,” he huffed. “I thought so too. Until Bas started eating that sandwich and I saw all that drippy yellow--” he swallowed noisily.

For a moment things were tense in the small space. It looked like Stiles was going to dive for the toilet again. But finally he relaxed and settled back into his miserable huddle. “Fucking—never going to be able to look an egg the same again,” he swore.

Ransom was confused by his comment until she took in his very noticeable belly, the tshirt material stretched to its limits. “Ohhhh,” she said as everything became clear. “No squishy undercooked eggs for you--,” she said, poking his baby bulge.

Stiles blinked at her in raw disbelief. Like, half a second before her words must have filtered in and he was just plain stunned. He lurched to his feet, his color draining drastically. He probably would have made it to the toilet in time if he hadn’t been distracted.

A few seconds too late and they were both regretting her careless words.

“Well,” Ransom said, viewing the disaster that was their clothing, “at least we’re in the room with the shower—”

Stiles was too drained too fight her when she reached past him and turned on the shower handle.

“You’re demoted to Auntie,” he croaked, as the water began to patter down.

She winced at the sound of his wrecked throat. “Yeah I deserve that.” Ransom saw how drained he was and began to tug Stiles shirt off. “C’mon. You can jump in first and I’ll make sure you don’t pass out.”

Ransom was a little worried at how little fuss he put up. She knew how awkward he felt with his ‘new body’ as he put it. He didn’t like anyone to see him naked. Even though in this house that was practically impossible. Or inevitable. Either. Both.

“Stiles,” She started worriedly, “You okay?”

The water was the right temperature and he got in, bare except for his Deadpool boxers. Ransom tried to be mindful of his privacy and avoid looking at the obvious but his pregnant belly was just so . . . pregnant!!

She looked up guiltily when she realized he hadn’t answered her and he was leaning against the wall of the shower. Frowning, she began shucking off layers, something was wrong. “Stiles?”

“M’ tired,” he mumbled, his ombre hair almost dark enough under the water to look back to its natural color.

In her underwear, Ransom stepped into the small shower with her friend and briskly picked up a bottle of body wash. “Okay sugar, just a quick rinse and I’ll get you out of here.” She quickly lathered up the cloth from earlier and did a quick wipe down. Basically making sure she got all the vomit rinsed from his skin. Then she did the same for herself.

“Okay we’re done.” Ransom reached around Stiles and turned off the water. There was no response. With a worried chill, she reached for his shoulders. “Sti—”

It seemed only grace had seemed to leave Stiles on his feet because it was clear he’d either fallen clean asleep or passed out. Either way as soon as she touched him, his legs folded and Ransom chose to follow him down in order to cushion his fall.

It knocked the breath out of her but all she cared about was Stile’s slack face. She barely got her mouth open to call for help when Bastien threw open the door with the golden-eyed focus of a werewolf who had heard her heartbeat spike with adrenaline. The way the door banged against the wall, Ransom was sure there was now a door handle shaped indent in the plaster.

“What happened?” he demanded, a slight lisp to his words as he spoke around his sharpened canines.

Ransom sounded as flattened as she looked, “Barf explosion. He passed out in the shower. I tried to catch him—is he okay?”

Bastien grabbed a towel and used it to wrap Stiles up before hoisting his limp form into his arms. “I’ll check them in a second, grab some warm clothes for the two of you.”

“Okay,” she said, scrambling from the tub, wincing as her hip protested the movement. That was going to bruise. She limped after Bastien, hurriedly grabbing a towel in mid-flight.  She ducked into her room on the way to grab clothes.

From the kitchen she could hear Lydia freaking out. Wow. No kidding that girl was a supernatural screamer. She almost felt bad for Bas.

By the time Ransom climbed the attic stairs Bastien had Stiles laid out on the futon and was taking his vitals while Lydia was hurriedly drying him off. Ransom crossed the room to the bureau and pulled out a pair of well-worn sleep pants and an over-sized t-shirt that her and Stiles took turns sleeping in.

Lydia was hesitating over the sopping wet boxers that Stiles was still wearing so Ransom knelt down next to her and traded the towel for the sleep pants. “Here. I’ll hold the towel over him and we can get his underwear off and the pants on and nobody’s sensibilities will be offended,” she offered briskly.

Snorting, Lydia replied, “Please. I’m just thinking Stiles would want to be awake for this.” Her smile was a little nostalgic, as though she wasn’t sure whether that was the case anymore.

It was awkward. Stile’s long athletic legs weighed a ton when he was unconscious but the girls managed to do it without his junk in their face. The shirt was _way_ easier.

“Mom?” Bastien’s voice interrupted the loaded silence. Ransom looked up and noted that he had his cellphone out. “Are you close to the house? Could you drop by a bag of dextrose? Stiles passed out. Excessive vomiting. Yeah. I have a pole here. Thanks. Love you. Bye.”

“Bas--?” Ransom asked cautiously, “Are Stiles and the baby going to be okay?”

Bastien turned to her and tucked a lock of golden hair behind his ear. He was frowning. “He’s under a lot of stress, he’s not eating enough, and his blood pressure is higher than it should be. He _needs_ more rest.”

Lydia was pinching her brows.

Ransom could guess what she was thinking. The redhead had to go back to school in two days and it had to be hard to leave Stiles like this. He was nowhere near recovered from his ordeal. He was in his second trimester of his magical werewolf pregnancy and they hadn’t brought up whether or not he would be going back to Beacon Hills with Derek or not.

That last part didn’t particularly bother Ransom, in fact she was kind of hoping Stiles stayed with them. She didn’t want to think about how he and the Alpha; Derek, looked at each other. It indicated _Notebook_ level feels. If anyone asked, she was going with denial about the whole thing. She was still pissed on Stiles’ behalf that the wolf could have been such an idiot to walk away from someone as amazing as her friend, well-meaning or not.

Stiles started to come around the same time as Sophie showed up with the supplies Bastien had asked for. When he saw them carry in the IV pole he groaned, “Nooo! I hate needles!”

“Then you’re really gonna love an IV.” Bastien said grimly. He looked pretty determined to get his patient back to glowing health. His usual warm disposition had been replaced by a stubborn set jaw.

“I am not afraid to throw up on you. Ask Ransom,” Stiles threatened him weakly.

Sophie insinuated herself next to Stiles on the bed and reached for his closest arm. She began to wipe down the inside of his elbow with an alcohol wipe. “I hear you’re dehydrated,” She commented in a calm voice.

Stiles turned his face away, gripping the sheets with his free hand. “Bas‘s gross favorite food,” he explained tightly. He missed the narrow-eyed look the mother sent her son at the accusation. Bas ducked his head guiltily, busying himself prepping the lines.

“You’ll feel a pinch,” Sophie told Stiles, lifting her eyes from the crook of his elbow to his tense form. “Relax, Stiles. You’re done.” She placed a piece of medical tape over the cannula to keep it in place and released the tourniquet.

Stiles exhaled shakily, turning his eyes towards the midwife warily. She and Bas were busy flushing the tubes with saline solution but Ransom saw his eyes flutter shut. She took up his free hand. “Get some rest, cher.” She said softly, tucking the blanket up to his chin.  

From downstairs they heard the doorbell ring. Lydia stood up, just as her phone began to play an unfamiliar ringtone. It came up onscreen as _Shepherd of Fire by Avenged Sevenfold_ She huffed in annoyance at the tune she knew she hadn’t programed to Chris Argents profile. “Stiles!” She barked at the tired yet smirking young man. “Not funny!”

She skipped down the stairs rapidly. She had a guess as to who was at the front door but why he hadn’t just let himself in was beyond her. Probably just to make himself more of a pain in the ass, she thought wrathfully as she pressed the answer button on the phone. She noticed that there had been an earlier call she’d missed. Probably when she first saw Bastien carrying a dripping wet, practically naked Stiles.

What. It was worth a double take.

“Hello?” Lydia answered, distracted. “Chris? Hang on a second, someone’s at the door—”

She tugged at the heavy oak door with a scornful comment at her lips for Peter when she got a good look at the person waiting for her on the other side.

It wasn’t Peter.

It was Sheriff Stilinski.

Scott and Kira flanked him from behind.

“Um, I’ll call you back.” Lydia wavered awkwardly into the phone.  Pasting a fake smile to her face, she cocked her head, like it was just an unexpected social call and not completely out of the fucking blue for them to be on the porch of a strangers house in New Orleans. “Hi. _Sheriff--!_ ”

The man in question was almost vibrating in place now that his suspicions about the location had been confirmed and Lydia Martin stood before him. Triangulating the location with the handful of cam clips featuring Stiles had paid off (if you had added keen werewolf senses to narrow it down further).

“Don’t Sheriff me, **_where is my son?_** ” John demanded furiously.

Her green eyes narrowed to cold slits at his harsh tone. She leaned casually against the door post. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Lydia replied blithely. “I’m here to visit a friend. If you needed me why didn’t you just call?” At this she scanned her eyes over John’s head to pierce Scott’s accusing glare with one of her own.

“Lydia don’t bother lying,” Scott decided to throw in with the hint of a growl. “I can _smell_ him. Stiles is here.”

“Who said anything about lying, Scott McCall,” Lydia retorted sharply. “I _am_ here to visit a friend and normally I would see if you were welcome but I already know your timing is shit, not to mention whatever your poorly thought out objective is—”

“My— _objective_ —” the Sheriff said it like a curse word, “is to take my son home, where he can be looked after in whatever way he needs.”

Lydia almost recoiled but caught herself in time. There was something ugly about the way John said ‘looked after’. For a moment it was almost like someone whispered _‘Eichen House’_ in her ear. She had to repress a chilled shiver.

Looking at the three unexpected visitors on the porch, Lydia realized she no longer recognized two of them. Scott had been letting his True Alphaness go to his head for too long and the Sheriff similarly had an idea of who Stiles should be and couldn’t seem to adapt to the change, unlike a parent who claimed unconditional love of their child. Kira just looked painfully out of place and like she wished her parents would swoop in and rescue her. The Kitsune even winced apologetically when Lydia’s eyes passed over her.

Disappointment was clear in the sour twist of Lydia’s rose petal lips. “If Stiles wanted that he would have contacted you, Sheriff. He’s legally an adult and can make those decisions for himself.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” John said, his grey eyes narrow with purpose.

Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose, “Mmm, no. You’re a Sheriff, not a Judge.” She quipped, unamused. “Also not of this jurisdiction. Unless Stiles asks for either of you I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“Is Derek here? Is he telling you that you can’t talk to us?” Scott demanded, hackles visibly rising.

That caused Lydia to laugh out loud. No, literally, she lol’ed. “Oh Scott,” She snorted disdainfully, “Can you see Derek making me do something I don’t want to?” Her laughter was clearly insulting to the True Alpha but she showed no fear in response to the flash of his ruby red eyes.

Lydia felt the presence of the Witch before the others saw her.

“Can I help y’all?” Ransom demanded, drawing power to her. To the untrained eye the young woman was rather commanding despite the plain black jeans and midriff baring crop top. Her still damp black hair was coiled messily on top of her head and it put on display the intricate veve tattoos that scrolled up her bare arms and neck.

The Sheriffs eyes narrowed, “Olive Belikov?”

“Only to those who don’t know a thing about me,” Ransom showed her teeth slowly and deliberately. It was nothing resembling a smile. “It’s getting’ late. Can we make this short?”

Scott was unabashedly taking in her scent, his growl low but audible, “You smell like Stiles--!” he accused.

Ransom rolled her eyes to Lydia’s glee. “This is McCall?” She thumbed towards the Alpha scornfully.

Lydia scrunched her nose in agreement.

Kira looked over at Scott nervously.

The Sheriff was staring at Ransom in dawning confusion. “I’m sorry for my bluntness, but Ms. Belikov, are you Stiles’ girlfriend?”

“Names Ransom, Sheriff,” she corrected him, bemused, “And no. Stiles likes ‘em Tall, Dark, and Wolverine. I like ‘em Tall, Dark and Undead.”

Lydia sucked on her lips in, an attempt not to comment. She could get to like this woman, she decided.

The Sheriff blinked in consternation at Ransom’s bluntness. “Now see here,” he started, ruffled. “My son has been missing for over three months! You can’t keep me from him.”

Ransom’s grin just grew wider at the challenge. “This is my house.” She spread her arms open. “I don’t see a warrant anywhere—Mr. Sheriff from another State, sir.” 

At that response, Scott stepped forward, his beta shift trembling at the edge of control. “What are you?” He growled at Ransom. “You don’t—you don’t smell completely human--”

That grin of Ransom’s turned nasty, “I thought you said I smelled _like Stiles—_ ”

Scott’s growl this time was clear and threatening.

“I wouldn’t advise becoming hostile in my territory while unannounced,” a chilly voice reached the crowd getting increasingly tense on the porch. The visitors immediately whirled around to see a man and a woman approaching the walkway. The woman took point and stopped, crossing her arms clearly unimpressed with the trio.

If the rolling fury pouring off her wasn’t enough to check Scott’s attitude, the flash of her crimson eyes sure did.

Scott actually took a step back looking wrong footed for a moment before he set his crooked jaw. “My apologies Alpha—”

“DeMolay,” Peter was happy to supply. The oldest living Hale couldn’t hide his glee.

“Peter Hale.” the Sheriff said darkly.

“Sheriff,” Kira said nervously. “That’s the Alpha—”

But since the Sheriff hadn’t had the involvement with the supernatural that the rest of them had, he didn’t have the same respect for the title of Alpha they did.

“Oh yeah?” John said distrustfully. “I don’t care if you’re the Queen. I have the local unit on speed dial and I think it’s about time I report a kidnapping.”

The attractive chestnut haired Alpha only looked amused at his declaration. “Well. If you need to go there. Just, wait until Ted has dinner with his wife. They rarely get a chance to go out. New twins are _such_ a handful.”

“You mean Superintendent Jacobs?” the Sheriff asked, eyes narrowing to wrinkles at her familiarity.

Juliette twisted her lips, “That’s the one. We had a little chat when I found out I had an Alpha in my territory without even a cordial call of introduction. I didn’t exactly feel welcoming.” She directed to Scott. “Surely even as a bitten wolf, you would have been instructed in etiquette by someone. Another wolf, an emissary. Someone.”

Peter remained silent but his know-it-all smirk was damning. Try a retired emissary, a former second, _and_ a born Alpha, his curled lip seemed to taunt.

Even so, Scott had to try to save face. “I’m terribly sorry Alpha DeMolay,” He blinked his guileless chocolate eyes, “It was a matter of urgency. I got word that a missing member of my pack was in your city. We couldn’t take the chance that we would lose his trail.”

Juliette lifted her eyebrows, “Sounds more like you’re trying to retrieve a felon than a beloved packmate. I was under the understanding that Alpha Hale instructed those that remained at home in California that his mate’s situation was delicate and not to send further members here until further notice.”

“We’re not in Derek’s pack,” Scott retorted harshly, his eyes flashing. “Stiles is part of _my_ pack.”

Peter pursed his lips theatrically. “I think I heard a skip there, Scott. Did you catch that Jules?” He leaned closer to the DeMolay Alpha who tilted her head in consideration.

“Mmm.” Juliette hummed, unimpressed. “I did hear it.”

Scott sputtered.

“Oh for--” The Sheriff exclaimed in impatience, “I just want my son!”

As they continued to argue, Peter circled around the unwanted visitors and approached Lydia reaching inside his dark denim jacket for a bag. “I hope you know I’m above such plebian errands. You owe me.”

Lydia took the plastic bag with a snort, “As if. Your breath smells like peanut butter.”

Juliette shot them a knowing smirk, to Peters chagrin. His flicker of embarrassment only lasted an eye blink and then he was his sardonic self once more. “I was hungry.” He shrugged carelessly.

Lydia knew better. “Hopefully he can keep the Reece’s down.” She said in a quiet voice.

It was almost inaudible. Certainly not for the werewolves though.

Ransom and Lydia looked as Peters head jerked up with sudden alertness that was focused on the house. Both women tensed in response. This drew the attention of the others and for a moment everything was silent as everyone strained their senses.

“What is it?” Lydia hissed at Peter.

If she wasn’t seeing it with her own eyes she would have denied someone telling her that Peter paled for anything other than Beserkers and yet, here they were. He shot wide eyes over to her before focusing on the open front door.

Soon enough even Lydia could hear the commotion. First it was the excited barking of Gansey as the huge Bull Mastiff came bouncing around the corner at the end of the hall like an over caffeinated tornado. Even his jowls were flinging strings of exuberant drool as he barked encouragement at whatever had gotten him worked up.

Then they saw Stiles sliding his way determinedly along the wall, IV pole floating in the air along behind him while a furious and wolf-ed out Bastien cursed at him from behind a moving mountain ash barrier.

It was admittedly a strange sight.

“You are supposed to be resting!” The flaxen haired wolf howled. He paced back and forth in the small space of the hall.

“I brought the IV!” Stiles protested. He didn’t bother looking back. He was facing determinedly forward. Dark amber eyes locked on Peter and seemed to gain some kind of feral hunger.

“Give me the bag back!” Peter suddenly hissed at Lydia in a panic.

For once, the Banshee didn’t question, or make a sarcastic retort. She hastily threw the plastic sack at the werewolf.

At the movement, Stiles normally amber eyes glowed with a golden light and he visibly lurched faster in their direction.

Peter stepped forward as if to meet him, a low reassuring rumble issuing from his bared throat. He held the bag out to Stiles. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Here it is.” He crooned softly.

Pausing in front of Peter warily, Stiles gazed between the bag and the wolf. Peter didn’t move. Stretching out his non-taped arm, the Spark cautiously retrieved the bag and pulled it to his chest possessively, but not before holding it up for a quick smell. Stiles let out a happy little noise. It was between a whine and a yip.

Then he blinked rapidly. “What the hell?” Stiles said hoarsely.

“Hang on,” Peter said, still using a calm voice. “Lydia. Be a dear and get a blanket from the living room. Ransom, gracious lady, a chair perhaps?”

Stiles was trying to look around Peter’s form which was blocking his view of the entrance, “Peter? What are you doing? Did you get me chocolate?” He asked distrustfully. Even more suspiciously, he leaned forward and sniffed at Peter’s chin. “Did you eat some?”

“Here Stiles,” Lydia said softly. “We have some visitors. You should probably sit down.” She guided a very confused young man past a shaken Peter.

When he saw who was gathered outside he visibly flinched and drew back. If Peter had not been at his back, its likely Stiles would have _noped_ his way out of that confrontation very unapologetically. Peter rumbled something and whatever it was, it was enough to give Stiles the fortitude to reach for the blanket Lydia held out and wrap it around himself tightly.

“Okay. Let’s get this over with,” he said with tight lips. He nodded gratefully at the lawn chair Ransom appeared with and did his best to get comfortable with the blanket and obtrusive IV pole that was now solidly on the ground.

“—Get this over wi—” Sheriff Stilinski parroted in incredulity. “What the _Hell_ , Stiles!”

“Stiles!” Scott also exclaimed. “Are you sick?”

Sinking deeper into the blanket, wishing he could disappear, Stiles’ fingers nervously stretched the plastic in his hands. “I’m pregnant Scotty,” he said acerbically, “comes with its hazards. Who knew!”

His jazz hands only seemed to sink Scott deeper into his pout. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Stiles blinked in disbelief. He coughed out a laugh. “Yeah right. You accused me of being a murderer and then didn’t speak to me for over a month. I’m sorry I didn’t climb right in your window and start braiding your hair.”

Bastien, having been released from the mountain ash was now anxiously checking over the IV line. He look up and growled at Scott at the mention of him accusing Stiles of murder.

“So you just ran away and found a new pack?” Scott scoffed.

Stiles looked at his ex-best friend in loaded silence for a moment. “Yeah. Of course. It was just like that.” Ransom placed a supportive hand on his shoulder, knowing some of the struggles that he was declining to mention.

Scott either didn’t care or ignored the blip at Stiles’ obvious lie.

“Son—”

Stiles winced inwardly at how tired his father sounded. It never failed to make him feel like the worst child ever.

The Sheriff, rubbed at his eyes, “I can’t say either of us have gone about this the right way. But I promise that once we’re back home I will get you whatever medical care you need to get better.”

Feeling sickened at his father’s words, Stiles, wrapped his arms protectively around his belly underneath the blanket. “Get better,” he choked out. “Define ‘get better’ for me dad. What do you think needs to happen with my child?”

John looked lost for a moment. “It’s—supernatural right? Can’t Deaton do something to get rid—of it?”

Breathing deeply, Stiles tried very hard not to throw up for the sixteenth time that day. “She’s a baby, not a Nogitsune--! You can’t just poison her out of me!” He was yelling by the end of it.

Shocked, John looked around for support.

“How do we know that for sure?” Scott asked in a low voice.

That prompted a chorus of enraged growls. Even Kira gasped out his name in horror. She backed away from Scott and John slowly. Until she was standing next to Alpha DeMolay.

Scott noticed too late. “Kira?”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” Kira said tearfully. “Is this what you’ve thought all along? How could you--?”

“I suggest you, Alpha McCall, and you, Sheriff Stilinski, leave Louisiana immediately,” Alpha Demolay declared with commanding voice and red eyes. “It is clear you mean harm to either Spark Stilinski or his unborn child. No Pack in this State will shelter you.”

“What—no!” Scott shouted, he whirled around, “That’s not--! You can’t!” His eyes fell on the pale faced Stiles who was watching all this unfold like he was in shock. Scott’s eyes flared a dirty red, “You!” His voice deepened into a rough growl, “It’s always your fault--!” Scott half-shifted and made to leap for Stiles when a shot rang out.

Scott hit the dirt at the foot of the porch, a smoldering hole in his right shoulder. The bitter scent of wolfsbane rose like smoke from the wound.

Peter stood up cautiously from his protective crouch over Stiles to watch as an unmarked car pulled up to the curb. An officer stepped out and Juliette calmly walked down the path to meet her. When she returned, she handed John a bullet.

“You’ll need this if you want to get him home alive. The officer will take you to the airport.” She said curtly.  

John turned to look at Stiles helplessly. “Mieczyslaw—”

“Don’t.” Stiles cut him off. His eyes glittered wetly. “Just go.”

Everyone watched silently as the car pulled away with its two extra occupants.

“Sooo,” Ransom said finally, eyeing Stiles’ lap, “Are you going to share those or--?”

Stiles snarled, defending his precious chocolatey hoard from her approaching fingers.

Her offended shriek echoed into the night air.

(Stiles digs a hole in the backyard to hide the precious)

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me heyokaooohshiny.tumblr.com  
> You never know what may show up there


End file.
